At The Eleventh Hour
by packingforthecrash
Summary: The Carlin family doesn't adopt Clay, instead they make room in their lives for a 17year old girl in need of a family. Ashley.
1. Knock on Wood

Title: At The Eleventh Hour  
Rating: Will turn NC-17  
Pairing: Spashley, duh!  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything  
A/N: It will pick up, I know it's slow...! ...lies, all lies, it's not gonna pick up, it's just gonna be more action I am dragging it out, that's for sure

Ì'm mainly just posting this so it won't disappear, I'm not waiting for reviews or anything. Ofcourse it would be nice, but I'm not waiting for it. I just don't want it to disappear if the other site it's on shuts down.

**Knock on Wood**

There are certain times in life that you don't know how you're supposed to act, to feel. You're being taught by people around you, by television, by everything that makes an impact on you. Last night's TV show brought up the exact same situation you're in right now, and when you saw it, you thought you understood how to react, how to be. You read the situation you saw unfold in front of you, and you learned it, relived it. You put yourself into another persons situation, trying to _be_ the person, to understand their need and want.  
But the thing is, it wasn't your situation. It wasn't _you_ that was in it, you merely observed another beings perception of the certain situation. It gave you a false illusion of knowledge, it made you believe you were prepared. But nothing can prepare you for it when it hits.

You may believe I'm talking about a huge event, something so extraordinary that you can barely fathom it. The moment you learn – or shall I say _observe_ – my situation, you may scoff and think: «Is this what she went on and on about? Man, what's so special about _this_?».  
However, although it happens every day, to a child for the first time - or for some children - for the nth time, you cannot understand the impact it has on a human being: Not until you experience it yourself.

I am currently sitting side by side with the Missus. That's what I've been calling her for ages. She's humming along to Pete Seeger, the same old song she's been humming along to since the first time I met her. I still don't know the name of the song, but it's about the war or something, but I have a feeling all of his songs contains the war. Poor man, desperately trying to relive a war he wasn't born early enough to witness. I guess there really are more pathetic souls out there than mine.

I'm nervously eyeing the CD-player to the left in front of me. I take a glance at the Missus and hope she notices me eyeing the radio. She doesn't even notice my nervous fidgeting where she's in her own world, suddenly breaking out into full sing-mode. I cringe, knowing that if I want her to stop her tirade of Jackaro's and the like, I have to speak up, but I do not dare. I know the radio is mere inches away from the tips of my fingers, and that a silent push will put it on, silencing the idol-contestant beside me. But I do not dare.  
I don't know why really. The Missus has been nothing but nice to me, ever since the first time I set foot in the orphan home. And each time I've been kicked out of a new home, she's welcomed me back with open arms. Well, actually it's more like being _crushed_ back into her arms. It doesn't make me feel special though, she does the same thing with every child that crosses her path.

When we reach the neighborhood, I feel my heart speed up. This is the moment all the television specials have tried to prepare you for. The moment where a world of expectations are on your shoulders, and however many of them you try to meet, there's always gonna be some that are impossible to reach.  
Contradictions, paradoxes, different opinions, numerous reasons for it never to end up just right.  
A family of three, maybe five; maybe a family of two – a sad story of a deceased child where the burden is now put on you to do the impossible task of refilling the void in their lives; maybe a lonely woman never finding a man to give her children; maybe a gay couple desperately trying to give you both a mother- and father figure and ending up overdoing it to the extent you think gender roles are one of the most important matters in life.  
I don't know what to expect. Of course I have been given the 101 on who the family is, how many members, age, sex, all the info it is expected of me to know. I have read it over and over, trying to find faults, something that is wrong, something _has _to be wrong. Each time a new family enter my life – or shall I say _I _enter their lives – something has always made them send me back.  
I don't see myself as a wild child, or a brute, or a nuisance, or any of those, but still they always find things about me that make them send me back. Therefore, even though I know who the family exist of, I still don't know what to expect, what wrong they will find in me this time.

The wheels moving under me, taking me closer to the final destination, is slowing down, and I close my eyes, trying to keep my emotions under control, trying to think happy thoughts, happy thoughts. _Ashley, you are the perfect child, the perfect sister, okey?_  
My body gives me away though, as my palms are clammy, my foot franticly tapping the floor of the vehicle and my hairline getting sticky with sweat. I can feel every nerve-ending in my body tense up, my ability to focus my eyes on something – anything – disappears, and I start listening to my breathing.  
When you're in a situation like this, meeting your new family for the first time, you become aware of everything. Anything. Little things like your breathing become huge matters, as if the family you're now going to intrude on is going to scrutinize everything about you. Down to the shape of your toes, therefore you hide them in shoes, then the matter of shoes comes up, and you wonder which shoes is the nicest ones and then you wonder if you should even _have_ nice shoes on, since it will seem like you don't need a new home. Rule number one when coming to a new foster home; never let them think that you don't need them. Rule number two; never let them think you can't live without them. It's a contradiction aright, did I say it was an easy task?

I glance up, and notice we've stopped outside a cozy house, and I internally freak, afraid I've been sitting here too long, not greeting them when is expected, not looking eager enough. The Missus is unbuckling her seatbelt, and I understand that I'm right on time. I unbuckle my own, and open the car door, before wondering which foot to step down on first. Should I hop out? That would seem eager, but then again, maybe it's too eager?  
I close my eyes again.  
_Ashley, come on, you've done this before, if they don't want you, which is highly probable, there's always the orphanage again.  
_Just thinking that line makes me nauseous, if I wanted to stay at the orphanage, I wouldn't try to get into new homes all  
the time.

I look up and smile the most innocent and appreciative smile I can muster up, and I shyly make my way towards the family, which are lined up in front of the house. At least the shyness I don't have to pretend.  
One of them, the father I presume, walks towards me, and I stop in my tracks. Should I still go towards him, or should I stay where I'm standing? I choose to stand where I am, and another dilemma arises. Should I hold my weight on the left foot or the right? Should I stand up straight, or slouch a little?  
_God, no wonder no one wants you, you over-analyzer!  
_

«Hi Ashley, I'm Arthur Carlin, it's a pleasure to meet you. We've been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs. Johnson here have told us all about you, and we're very excited to get to know you.»

I meet his hand in mid-air, and shake it lightly, cringing internally due to my clammy hand. It always happens, my first impression shattered by that clammy hand. I guess it has to be something; if it weren't for the hand, it would be the shoes, or how the bag hangs on my shoulder, or the smile I've got plastered on my face, or... it could be anything. Possibly everything.

I greet the Carlin's alright. Each one of them after turn, feeling them boring their eyes into me, searching me, looking for clues as to who I am and what wrongs I have done to make me end up in fostercare. One of them though, doesn't seem interested at all. I guess now I should call her my sister, but counting all the other supposed sisters I've had over the years, I've stopped calling them that: A sister is family. None of my supposed sisters have ever felt like one, and I doubt this one will either.

---


	2. Feather In My Cap

**Feather in my cap**

Let me tell you one thing: The first night in a new house, everything is not how it should be. The family is overly cheery, the dinner is overly done, the rooms are overly clean, nothing is normal. One would think that when welcoming someone into their homes, they would also welcome them into their mess, but that never happens. Everything is so neat that it's like entering an open house, when someone is selling their house. Nothing is familiar; not even for the original family.  
No one fights. Which is probably a good thing, not scaring the newcomer out of the house before he or she has even touched the door sill. But sibling arguments, banter that us orphans by all means are well used to, they also seize to exist, and I don't know about others, but in my case, that's something I wish was present. Even though I've entered a new house, with new people, and I'm dying of nervousness, I would still like for them to be able to act normal.

Right in this particular moment, after all these musings, I'm sitting at the Carlin dinner table. At first, I didn't know where to sit, but it became apparent that they had already determined a place for me to sit; right next to the 'sister'. So now I'm trying to eat as properly as possible, which is becoming a hard task, since we're eating pasta. I can never manage to eat that properly. I desperately try to swirl the spaghetti around the fork, and it looks like I've succeeded until I put it up to my mouth. That's when the spaghetti releases itself from its current torture, and in a wild attempt to break free from it's destined doom, it slides down into my lap, creating a mess of me.

As if on cue, Glen, the 'brother', starts laughing, and I internally hug him, knowing he broke some of the tension; both in me and the others.  
Arthur joins Glen in his laughter, and I look toward Paula. How is she going to react? Oh no, don't be mad, don't be mad, don't send me back!

Apparently, I needn't have worried, because the good-looking blond 'mom' of mine burst out laughing, and if that isn't enough, she has her mouth bursting with water, which effectively gets sprayed all over the girl next to me.

Mouth agape, my new 'sister' doesn't join in on the festivities, and instead turn toward me with an ice cold glare, before sliding backwards on her chair, standing up, and stomping out of the room.

I silently curse myself. The family seemed to like me, and I liked them, and then I go and do something like this, surely destroying every chance of a bond with these people; now they're going to send me back.

«Spence, you're such a baby!», Paula shouts after her, before turning her head towards me. I still have the spaghetti in my lap, my fork still hanging off my hand in mid-air. I don't dare to move, afraid any movement will shatter the moment. Cause this sure is a moment for me. The enveloping feeling of someone laughing at my mistakes instead of shouting, the warmth of Paula's eyes as she looks apologetically at me, with an underlying smirk threatening to appear.

I think I can get used to this.

I can't believe it's been a month. A whole month and it feels like years, still I'm amazed that it's already been 30 days since I entered this house of joy. The world of contradictions again crossing my path.

Glen has been my savior, really. He's been exceptionally nice to me, introducing me to his friends, kept me company at home, taught me how to play basketball, I seriously believe it would have taken me years to get me this comfortable if it hadn't been for him.

Arthur, the master chef, is the one who apparently 'found me'. He's a social worker, deciding to take his job with him home by taking in a 'child in need'. Normally, I wouldn't like the prospect of someone trying to save me, but when it comes to Arthur, he can save me any time. Ugh, that sounded like I'm crushing on him or something, I'm not, he's just the dad I always wanted, and suddenly got. I remember a week after I got there, he called me down into the kitchen and my whole body went rigid, absolutely dead sure I had done something wrong and now I would get punished. However, when I got into the room, he welcomed me with an apron. And not just any apron, but one with my name on it. That happened three weeks ago, but I still get chills just thinking about it. Someone actually made me something with my name on it. That jest alone almost made me cry. Every Carlin in the house has one with their respective names on, and suddenly now I got my own. It suddenly felt like I had family.

Paula, Paula, Paula. She's like the walking contradiction itself, and it  
kinda makes me uneasy. She's fun-loving, warm, polite, care-taking, but I think she's pulled between two sets of how to be. One being what I just described, the other... Well, the other is a whole other story. Her other self consists of God-fearing, self-denying bigotry, which in my book doesn't really make a good person. Still, she's the mother I've always dreamed of, and whatever bigotry that lies within her, it's not rooted in her being but more in her Christian uprising. I know she's a good person, she just seems a bit narrow minded from time to time. Her other sides make up for it though, and whatever she doesn't approve of, I don't approve of, because there's no way in hell I'm getting on her bad side; cause I just love the good side way too much.

Last Carlin in the bunch: Spencer. I wish I could just jump over this description, but at the same time, she's the easiest to come up with adjectives about. Self-absorbed. Self-centered. Self-conceited. Self-glorificating. Self-complacent. Self-aggrandizing. All in all, just plain self-delusional.

I guess it's too much to ask for when you wish for everyone in a family to be supreme. It's just that, the way Spencer is, it's just so different than the others and it doesn't make sense. How can such a wonderful family breed something so grotesque? Not that she's bad looking or anything, she's quite the looker actually, but it sure doesn't shine through in her being. Maybe I'm biased, because all I've known in life have been either good or bad; there hasn't been many shades of gray crossing my path. Maybe she's a very loving person deep down in her soul... but I highly doubt it. Maybe some people are just destined to lack sympathy. Destined to be horrible.


	3. Wing and a Prayer

**Wing and a prayer**

«Speeencer! Breakfast's been ready for ages, are you ever going to get down and eat some?»

Silence.

«Spencer? Do you really wanna miss your dad's special pancakes? I made them just for you!»

Silence.

«Ashley? Would you go up and check on her? Maybe drag her by her ankle down the stairs if that's what it takes to get her down?»

Shock. Bug-eyes. Trembling. And most of all: Fear.

No way.

No way did he just ask me to go to Spencer. And not just go to Spencer with a message, but actually making her do something, make her reciprocate.

I can imagine her reciprocation.

A fatal blow to the head, caused by a hair-dryer flying in high speed across the bathroom.

Death by choking caused by a hanger roughly wrapped around my neck.

Lethal dose of perfume shoved into the depths my bowels.

«Ashley? Did you space out on me?»

Shock. Bug-eyes. Trembling. And most of all: Embarrassment.

Not needing to vocally reply to Arthur's sentence, I drag myself up from the chair I'm currently occupying. My eyes are still as big as Arthur's pancakes, and if I don't minimize them soon, I'm sure they're going to swallow me whole. Glen is smirking at his end of the table, knowing full well of my fear of Spencer.  
I forcefully shut my eyes and braze myself for what I have been assigned to do. Opening my eyes again, one by one, I glare at the floor, naively thinking it will help to cast my gaze downwards.

One step.

Two step.

No, I'm not reciting a damn song, I'm talking about my footsteps.

Three step.

Did that sound like I have three feet?

Four step.

Great, now I'm apparently a horse.

Fi- and as I'm about to tread another foot on my path to extinction, my eyes are cast towards the stairs again, and tadah: Return of the pancake-eyes.

My feet linger at the top of the stairs, the locks of hair falling into my eyes. I instinctively release the hair ribbon from my wrist and tuck my hair as neatly against my scalp as possible.

Deadly loss of blood from the skin formerly attached to my hair.

No need to generate a reason for Spencer to put me to sleep. I already sleep with one eye open. Not the pancake kind though. More like the amount of pancake Spencer devours. Which is next to nothing.

Bathroom not locked. Does Spencer usually lock it? I try to remember any occurrence where I've encountered Spencer in the bathroom, but I can't recite any. I've always been very aware of where Spencer is at any moment. If I'm not sure where she is, I keep still, doing everything in my power to not bump into her before I've located her presence once again. It's like I've gotten my own Spence-dar. Christ, did I just say that?

You might wonder why I'm so frightened of her. Sometimes I do too. Wonder, I mean. It's not like I've never encountered mean people before. I'm actually well used to them. And Spencer isn't mean per se. She's just... so intense in her indifference.  
Sometimes I catch myself staring at her, following her every move. She doesn't notice, she's too occupied in her obscene indifference, and it makes me want to know what goes behind that head of hers oh so much more. Occasionally I hope that I can uncover her by looking at her, know her inner feelings, her reasons for being the way she is. Every day I think I come closer to the answer by learning her moves, her gazes, her choice of words. Everyday I try to read her just like people read the TV specials, processing them, putting yourself in their position, believing you understand; and at the end of the day again admitting defeat, that you're merely just observing what you wish you could understand.

As I reach for the door handle, my hands trembling, I hear something shatter in the room next door, followed by a series of not so nice cuss-words.

Great, when I finally muster up my courage to go into the bathroom, it happens to be the bedroom she's currently occupying.

Closed eyes. Sharp intake of breath. Ready, set, go.

My feet lead the way to Spencer's door, and my hand go directly into contact with the door, knocking ever so slightly on it.

«What?»

It's harsh, indifferent, dripping of menace, daring you to speak up again. She doesn't want a reply, the question mark behind the word is not an invite to a reply, it's merely a matter of pronunciation.

«Uhm, Arthur asked me to come get you...»

Silence.

Door slamming open, almost hitting my nose.

She looks at me, straight in the eyes, and it's so intense that I can't bare not looking away. So that's what I do. Look away.

SLAM!

Door slammed shut again.

Silence.

Shock.

Zombie-state down the stairs, into the kitchen, into the chair.

«I think it would be helpful to blink, Ash» Glen snickers, and it pulls me out of my reverie.

«I'm sorry Ashley, I should have known you weren't used to Spencer's morning mood. I won't ask you again to do that.»

As Arthur speaks, his eyes go from me to Glen, and as father and son  
look at each other, I see a mutual understanding.

Glen told him.

Fuck.

Glen told Arthur that I'm afraid of the behemoth upstairs.

So maybe my pure fright, or my almost-there panic attacks whenever near her might have given Arthur a clue about my obsession to not run into Spencer, it still doesn't give Glen approval to tell him.

I can't help but feel betrayed.

But it's a good betrayal.

A welcomed one.

And by the way Glen smiles affectionately at me, I know he knows.

He knows he did the right thing.


	4. Babe in the Woods

**Babe in the woods**

«Ashley, are you going already?» Glen shouts after me, where he's glistening of what looks like baby-oil inside the gym.

Yes, we're at the gym.

Glen, the best brother ever, apparently figured out that I needed some anger-management, and not the usual kind. No, apparently, I am in crucial need of being about to speak up for myself, to defend myself, to let myself be angry.

Years in foster care can do that to you. Make you paralyzed. Make you helpless.

It did to me. Always having to be nice, needing to downplay any forthcoming emotions, never sticking up for myself.

Or being a damn pussy, as Glen so nicely put it.

So that's the reason why we're currently doing kick-boxing. Well, Glen is, 'cause my gloves are neatly laid down on the bench near the wall.

_Fucking pussy, not even the damn gloves did you have the balls to throw to the ground._

«Yeah, I'm kinda tired, I'll just wait for you right here though.»

«Ashley, don't be an idiot, here» Glen says as he throws me the car keys. How the hell he managed to do that with both gloves firmly attached to his hands is beyond me.  
Maybe he's got big pockets. Or small hands. Or a great grip. Why am I still talking about this?

«Thanks! It's been fun though, I'll definitely tag along another time too!»

I mean it, kicking the shit out of a bag really is more satisfying than I imagined.

The smell of rum inhaled through my nostrils makes my face cringe, but no one notices. I grip the steering wheel tighter, feeling the blood pump through my veins at how hard I press my hands against the leather. The voices are blurry, but they're close, oh so close.

Left back door opens, right one closes. One person enters, one person leaves. The smell of rum now mixed with the smell of tequila. A shove to my shoulder, a request thrown my way, eyes looking at me in the mirror, a smirk appearing, a sleazy sexual comment voiced – and I'm off to drive another of the associates home.

This is how it is.

This is how it's been for 3 months now.

And it doesn't get better.

«Amanda!»

Ashley wasn't classy enough. How on earth Amanda was oh so much more classy is beyond me, but I didn't have a say in it. I span the wheels of fortune and  
according to everyone, hit the jackpot.

But every prize has its backside. I still haven't seen the front.

«Amanda, you are to speak up when you're talked to», the stern voice whispers to me as a hand grips my upper arm sharply, digging its nails into the skin, not quite hard enough to draw blood.

«George is not feeling too well, will you be kind enough to drive him home?» the voice says aloud, sounding nice and charming, but I know better. It's a show. It's all a show.

Why else would someone change my name at the age of sixteen?

He enters the car and literally falls into the backseat, drool on the side of his face. Some of it has gotten stuck in his mustache, it's a view that would surely make a great stir if it ever became a publicly known view.

It's amazing how different things are when the bloodshot, blurry eyes of their associates are on them,instead of the eyes of the common public. I will never look at their kind the same ever again. What once was trust, hope, commitment to these people, is now replaced with disgust, surrendered hope, and most of all – disappointment. It becomes more and more clear to me how my situation occurred. I no longer blame my parents. I no longer blame the drug dealers, or the landlords, or people working at the foster care. It's not their fault that the system doesn't work. It's

their _fault. _

_«You... are such a pretty little lady...»_

_I ignore the comment, having heard it a million times before. The hand creeping into my hair is not being pushed away by my small, fragile fingers. I do not meet the eyes forcing me to meet them with my own. My eyes, and mind, is solely focused on the road, because that's where I have to focus my attention. Anger is not needed in this situation, but it's still threatening to appear, so it's vital to keep it in check. It's not a hard task, I've done it so many times before. It's all I've ever done, really._

_Hand caressing my neck, I still don't stop the movements. It's not needed. George is not going to last much longer._

_Not even the first time it happened, did I get angry. I got scared though, being seated alone in a car with a man twice my size. A man twice my size, with twice my strength, feeling me up in his drunken stupor. I had heard the stories, too many of them, and I was sure this was my turn. It had to happen eventually, right? No one managed to get away from the system entirely pure._

_I somehow accepted what would happen to me, long before it did, and when the situation occurred, it somehow didn't at the same time. Because poor, old George fell asleep before he even managed to graze my boobs. But I knew his intent. I saw his lust._

_And now I'm waiting for George to fall asleep again like he always does, while he's desperately trying to inflict the lust he's filled with, into me._

_But I think even he knows he's got no chance._

_We're almost at the mansion when I see another car pulled up. A limo. Christine must be home. The road up to the mansion is long, with a great view of everything. Somehow, George is still awake, and when we reach the house, he crosses the line._

_I always thought I would be able to block it out if something actually happened. That I would keep still, turn him off by not giving him anything, not even a scream. But when his manicured hand cups my right breast, I flinch away from him as if on instinct._

_It wakes him up properly._

_An arm drags mine so I fall into the passenger seat, and suddenly, he's hovering over me. His hot breath is on my stomach where my shirt has risen up, and he kisses it. The hands are rough around my arms, keeping me in place, but the kisses are soft, butterfly ones. He doesn't want to do it the rough way._

_I'm not giving it to him._

_Just as I'm about to kick him in the groin, the door above my head opens, and I look up into the face of Christine. She's upside down, but I still see her clearly. Still, it surprises me when it's me she drags by the hair out of the car, and not George. When it's me she hits in the face, and not him. When it's me she screams at, lashes  
out at._

_When it's me being kicked out, not him._

There's just something about driving. I don't know what it is, some say there's a certain freedom to it. I – on the other hand – find it contradicting, because really, you're trapped. You're inside a piece of metal, bound by a system. Whichever turn you make, it's not entirely your own. Someone has laid it all out for you, to choose, but sometimes what you really want is to choose neither. To choose the road not taken. The road not there.

I learned this the hard way, by letting a rich couple pay for my license. I let them give me something huge, and instead of gaining freedom, it made me into a slave.

My inner conflicts lose the battle for my attention when a distant song creeps it's way into my ears. It's getting louder now, and I start to recognize it.

Fuck, I took Glen's cell again!

Reaching the right hand back into the seats, I search for Glen's backpack where he always puts his phone. I take a quick glance backwards and see it sitting right behind me. Frantically stretching for it, I curse my height, wishing my arm was long enough to reach it.

Damn phone.

As a last attempt at reaching it, I feign surrender, before suddenly flipping the back of my seat down, laying myself upon it, and losing contact with the steering wheel.

Fuck!

I flip myself up again, but not far, so I can reach both the steering wheel and the backpack at the same time.

«Ah ha!»

Flipping the backpack over, I let all of Glen's stack flow into the passenger seat, before I reach for the phone and flip it open, still looking at the mess I created in the passenger seat. My eyes land on a pack of condoms, and my eyes pop open in amusement.

«Glen? GLEEEEEEN!»

The amusement of what Glen actually brings with him to school makes me forget to talk into the phone, and the voice suddenly invading my ears shock me. Then frighten me.

Guess who's on the phone.

«You stupid fuck, answer me dammit! You need to pick me up!»

I freeze, knowing I need to speak up, but I'm too afraid to do so.

«Uh, it's Ashley.»

I cringe at what I said, although I have no idea why, it wasn't like I stammered or said something inappropriate. Still it makes me take the wrong turn, and I curse internally.  
It takes a moment before Spencer replies.

«Well, I don't care who's on the phone, as long as I'm being picked up asap, this party is laaaame!»

Phone clicked shut.

And it isn't mine.

I'm still holding the phone up to my ear when I notice I've driven way too far for my own good in the wrong direction.

Spencer's drunk.

Spencer's drunk at a party.

I don't know why it makes me frown, why it bothers me, it's not like I'm not used to it.

Spencer's always drunk.

I've just never really interacted with her in that state.

Cause I always avoid her.

And now that I'm forced to face her, I wish I had another road to take. One that wasn't put out there for me, one that didn't have a reaction.  
Because whatever I choose to do – pick her up or leave her – it's so not going to go down pretty.


	5. Get your Goat

**Get your goat**

I'm outside Madison's house. Or mansion. Or castle. Call it what you want, I call it one hell of a building.

I remember Glen giving me the tour of the town, and this building was according to Glen the best part of the tour. Apparently, the building is used as a party house at least once a month. On those weekends that Madison's parents are on their 'romantic weekends'. And don't think it's with each other, no, it's with their lovers. I guess there's a reason why Madison is the way she is after all.

Madison. Wondering who that is, huh?

Queen-bee. Yup. And the best friend of Spencer. Both in the cheerleading squad, both total bitches. You couldn't find a better couple really, they fit each other perfectly. Both  
so shallow and conceited that it's dripping from every word, every move they make.

Not that they're a romantic couple or anything, I'm talking about a couple as in 'a couple of friends'.

Huh, them being a romantically involved couple would just be the funniest thing ever. Even just one of them being gay would totally rock my socks, and the rest of the school's too, because it would shatter everything for them.

Everything.

I take the thought back when I see Spencer stumbling out the door with a guy's hand permanently attached to her ass. I don't even wanna mention where her hands are.  
She's so drunk, she's barely holding herself up, and the guy's more than willing to hold her up. By her ass. The sight is making me cringe, it's so not pleasant. And it doesn't help when she stumbles into the car, dragging the guy on top of her in the backseat.

No.

No way I'm driving both of them around.

I know what this will lead to, and I am NOT letting them have sex in the backseat while I'm driving the car. NO. WAY.  
Still I can't get myself to say anything, 'cause of my fear or what Spencer might do.  
I've still never spoken back to her, and I have no intention of starting.  
I have no intention of feeling her wrath.

So I drive.

A moan, a belt buckle popping open, a zipper slowly being pulled down, breath hitching, sloppy kissing-sounds, oh I am not looking into the rear mirror, I am so not doing it.

Quick glance.

NO.

This is not happening, not happening.

I can't help but look again, knowing how creepy it is.

Spencer without a top.

Spencer with a guy attached to her neck.

I can't help but feel this sting in me, and I wonder why it's there, why I'm affected by what's happening in the backseat.

It's not like I haven't seen it all before.

I can't tear my eyes away from it, however sickening it is to me, however much it hurts.

Hurts.

That's what it does, and I have no idea why.

And when he tugs at her pants, I can't help but do something. I can't watch this unfold in front of me. Or right behind me, or whatever.  
So I do the only thing I can do.

I brake.

Hard.

And it sure works, a bit more than I hope for actually.

I can hear a scream from behind me, and I'm afraid, so afraid that I've hurt Spencer.

The pitch of the sound is so high that it couldn't possibly be a man's voice. But it is. And apparently, my action didn't just get them to stop. I think it just permanently castrated the guy in the backseat, as his groin hit Spencer's knee when he was thrown forward into the back of the passenger seat.

And I can't help but smile.

«What the hell was that?»

Uh-oh.

I forgot about Spencer a minute there. Bad move.

I turn my head backwards, trying to mumble out an excuse, but do not succeed in my wild attempt to cover up the real reason for my actions. Spencer's eyes bore into me, and I feel like a dear caught in headlights, I know she reads right through me and my excuses.

Shit.

«God, I am so outta here!»

A door slams, and to my surprise, it wasn't Spencer. I kinda wish it was, because now I'm alone, all alone with Spencer, and she's still looking at me. Still boring her eyes into me. And I know my punishment is soon coming, so I wait.

And wait a bit more.

And then wait in vain.

'Cause nothing happens, she's still looking at me with this unreadable  
expression, and I cannot tear my eyes away from hers.

And then it hits.

And it hits me so hard that I have no chance to defend myself, no chance to prepare.

And I can't help but join.

She's laughing. She's laughing so whole-heartedly that I'm almost  
believing she actually does have a heart. The smile accompanying the giggles is so foreign that I can't help but stare at her in awe, I think I just witnessed a miracle.

Or maybe it's just the alcohol.

Thump.

That was my heart sinking at the knowledge that she's so wasted that she probably doesn't even know it's me sitting in the driver's seat, and when she suddenly starts to choke on her laughter, desperately grabbing for the door handle, I know that's exactly what this is. A wasted Spencer having no clue it's me, the person she hates, in the front seat.

God, she's retching.

And it is so not pretty.

Still I can't help but open my door reluctantly, waiting for her to slam it shut where she's leaning out of her own door. She doesn't, and I dare to walk out and bend down to her level, before taking hold of her hair and pulling it back. I'm right in front of her, using both hands to tuck her hair behind her ears, and she's looking down, never meeting my gaze. And I'm thankful, she might have recognized, and this whole moment with her would shatter.

'Cause this sure is a moment for us.

Or, for me at least.

It's not like she's even aware of my presence, for all I know she probably thinks it's Glen doing all this.

I push that thought from my mind, and try to relish in the moment of me and her being civil. However civil it is to hold someone's head while they're throwing up all the alcohol formerly inside their stomach.

Still.

It's more than being pushed out of the car and being run over 10 times. It's so much more than that.

When we get home, she's slouched in probably the most uncomfortable position ever in the backseat. I momentarily ponder just leaving her there, but I just can't do that. I just can't.

She's so peaceful asleep. I've never seen her like this, usually she's always glaring, always having this hard edge to her face, to her demeanor. But in this moment – where she's lightly snoring with her feet in the passenger seat and her torso halfway on the floor of the car, head where you usually place your ass in the backseat of the car – she looks so innocent. Her half open pants and shirtless upper body kinda kills that perception though, and I know I have to dress her up before we go into the house. There's no way I'm telling Arthur and Paula, not because I've done anything wrong, but because Spencer has. And I can't bare see them mad at her.

I don't go out of the car, but instead try to crawl my way into the backseat, hovering over her for a minute, before I manage to straddle  
her in the air, one foot in the front seat, one foot in the backseat. It's  
so not a comfortable position, but it's a perfect one when I want to lift  
her up into a sitting position. Before I do that though, I buckle her pants, and when I reach for her shirt, I graze the skin of her stomach,  
and she stirs.

I freeze.

I move my hand away like it just touched fire, and I look away from her. There's no reason for it, but I still feel compelled to do it, like I'm doing something creepy, something immoral.

I wait for her breath to become even again, before I dare to drag her shirt on again. No way I'm letting her wake up with me in my position and her in hers.

I don't even wanna know what would happen if that took place.

Please please pleeaase don't make her wake up!

I lightly touch her sides, trying not to tickle her, and slowly press my hands against her skin, getting a hold on her before I try to lift her up into a sitting position. She stirs slightly, and while I feel my hands wanting me to let go of her, I know if I do so, it's absolutely sure that she will wake up.  
So I keep them there, feeling its warmth against me, and I look down at her, and what I see frightens me. Sends shivers down my spine. Makes me tighten my grasp.

She's smiling.

Eyes still closed, she's smiling this consent smile, and she shifts her feet slightly, making my right foot lose its balance in the front seat, and I crash into her side, making both of us stumble together in a heap in the car. I scramble myself off of her before my brain has time to react, I'm clutching the door in the backseat, as far away from Spencer as possible, when I see her eyes wide open, looking at me.

Oh, no.

This is so not happening.

She only glares at me, for a long while, and I'm so shocked that I can't do anything but mirror her gaze.

It's so different.

The view.

I know her view is someone shocked, someone with pancake eyes the size of, uh, giant pancakes. A frightened face with locks loosening from it's ribbon cage. Hands desperately clutching the door, feet pressed into a fetal position, body rigid of torment.

Or maybe all she sees is some kinda molester, trying to go at her in her sleep. God, I hope that's not what she sees.

My view on the other hand, consists of coldness. Hatred. Scolding blue eyes look at me, and I know it's the latter view of me she's currently  
feeding off of.

I can't really blame her though.

Waking up to clothes barely on, some stranger hovering over you, touching you, I really don't blame her for thinking the wrong way.

I so need to explain myself.

«I-...»

«Shut the fuck up and get the hell out of the car!»

«But-...»

«Get out! Get away from me!»

The anger I always imagined was inside of her, just pounding to get out, suddenly do. I'm sure I see her seethe, but I can't be sure, since her last interruption sends me falling out the door, as she kicks me away from her, effectively making me pull the door handle, and down on the ground I fall.

Scrambling to my feet, I start running.


	6. Stone's throw

Hey people )  
I just wanted to tell all of you that English is almost my _third_ language, so any mistakes you'll find are because of that )

**Stone's throw**

I am stupidly wishing that I am somewhere cold, somewhere where my breath will create cold smoke as I'm letting my breath release from inside me. At least then I would have something to focus on, something to occupy the pounding of the veins inside my brain, the pounding of my heart as it ferociously pumps the blood up to my head. Instead I'm sitting on some steps, not even a cold breeze gracing my burning skin, helping me cool down.

I didn't get far.

Half a mile, or probably less, is how far away from the car, and the Carlin household, that I managed to run. I wish I could blame it on an internal voice whispering for me to go back, or someone running after me, telling me they didn't mean it, or me getting some kinda revelation from God, but no. I can't blame it on any of those. The blame is completely and solely on something so far away from these things that is isn't even funny.

I stumbled.

On a rock.

When you think that it would take something huge, something magnificent and meaningful to ever make you stop, it happens to be a tiny, inconvenient piece of rock that brings you down, makes you stumble to the ground and shatter your dream of an endless runaway.

I pick at the loose skin on the inside of my hand, squinting to see if all the small rocks that entered the wound after my fall has been fully removed. It hurts, but the physical pain is better than the emotional pain going on inside me.

I wish I had never run in the first place, 'cause I've got nowhere to go. I know I need to go back there, back to the Carlin's, and I know they'll understand, whatever psycho story Spencer gave them, I know they'll let me explain my side of it.

I wish I had never run, 'cause now I will have to walk all those feet back, and each step will make it that much harder.

But it's got to be done.

I'm going to fight for this family.

---

Still sitting here. Still not a single step back on my way to the Carlin's. Still completely dark outside.

I'm procrastinating. That exactly what I'm doing. I'm dreading something, and instead of diving straight into it, I'm making it all that much worse by waiting. Thinking. Imagining all the scenarios that can take place.

It's a stupid thing to do, really, 'cause it won't help the outcome. Not the least bit.

Still I do it.

Still I choose to observe my surroundings with forced concentration. I'm making those shades behind the tree much more interesting to me than they would've been if it weren't for the dread of going home.

Notice how I suddenly used the word 'home'?

I just noticed that myself.

Back to focusing on the shades. Hm, someone going for a nightly jog down the street, isn't there? At this time a night? Maybe they just got home from work. Or maybe they're working night shifts, and this is their morning jog? 'Cause if it is, it's kinda sad. Taking a morning jog in the middle of the night. I hope I don't end up like that. Taking my morning jogs at night.

Notice how I desperately try to focus on _anything_ but the long  
walk back home?

I do.

Because I hope to God my usual ramblings are a bit more interesting that this.

The jogging shade is almost by me now, on the other side of the street. Who would go jogging in flip flops? I mean, seriously? The only person I can imagine doing that would be Glen.

Glen looooves his flip flops.

Wait, Glen? Wasn't that Glen?? I can faintly recognize the floppy noise the flip flops make when Glen tries to run in a masculine way, and as I squint in the darkness for a better view of the jogging shade, I know I'm right.

Those flip flops always give him away.

Then reality hits me. What is Glen doing here? Why is Glen running around in flip flops?

"Glen...?" I distantly voice out, as the shade runs past me. How he managed to hear that is beyond me, but he's slowing down, stopping, breathing hard, hands resting on his knees. It takes him seconds before he turns his head around, searching for the owner of the voice, knowing full well it was me. It takes him a few seconds more before he sees me, and trudges toward me.

What I was trying to face has now come to face me.

"Ashley? God, I've been looking for you everywhere...!"

His concern is evident in his voice, and it soothes me, warms me.

"You-..."

He stops to regain his normal breathing, before he continues his sentence.

"You can't just run off like that Ash, we all got really worried."

I know it's wrong, I know it's inappropriate, but hearing him utter those words makes my face light up, makes my heart skip a beat. I'm not used to people worrying about me.

"Whatever Spencer did, I'm sure she didn't mean it."

What?

"What?"

"I saw you run off from the driveway from the window, and when I asked Spencer about it, she had this really weird expression on her face, so I _know_ she did something. What did she say Ash?"

I'm dumbfolded.

Not because Spencer didn't say anything, but because Glen so obviously is taking my side.

Glen is taking my side over his sister's.

"Uhm, she-..."

I stop mid-sentence, knowing that whatever I utter now can be used against me later, if Spencer suddenly gets the desire to tell her side of the story after all.

"It's not-... She didn't do anything, it was me, okey?"

He's staring at me like he doesn't believe me, like he's daring me to say the truth.

"Can we just-... Can we go home...?"

It wasn't just me noticing the word 'home' being uttered from my lips this time. The warmth of his sympathetic smile doesn't compare to the warmth of his eyes, as he extends his hand and helps me up. I cringe when the palm of his hand hits the wound inside my own palm. He notices and lifts our joined hands up, looking at me for approval, and when I nod he carefully inspects it.

"Did Spe-..."

"I fell when I ran, that's why I didn't get further than this," I hurriedly breathe out, not wanting him to utter those words of blame I knew he would do. He looks at me wearily, before he continues to inspect the wound. As we're walking toward the house, _our_ house, I can't help but smile, the way he's treating me with such calmness and love. The way he looks at me with adoration.

I can't help but feel he's becoming the brother I never had; just like I hope I'm becoming the sister he deserves.

---


	7. Below the Salt

**Below the salt**

She hasn't looked at me once. Not once. I should be over the hills, knowing that she's just ignoring me instead of making my life a living hell. But I'm not. By not looking at me, it makes it impossible for me to know if her hatred for me has increased or not.

That night has still not been acknowledged.

I wish I could explain myself, tell her how it was all an act to help her, not use her.

My voice is still intact, but when it comes to her, I can't seem to make it work.

I need to see her eyes first. I need her to give me an opening, some kinda emotion, but she's not giving it to me. I don't know how to approach her when I don't know how she feels.

I don't even know if she remembers.

She wasn't around when me and Glen came back that night. I never saw her the day after, both of us residing in our own separate rooms. Me in mine because of pure fright, her in hers because of a hangover. I wish it was the other way around.

That's the first and probably the last time I'll ever envy a hangover, but the knot in my stomach that day felt so much worse. I wished for a headache, I wished for nausea, anything to occupy my mind, anything.

The next day wasn't better. We were both forced out of our rooms, forced to meet one another.

Sunday dinner.

I used to love them, I still do, but that particular Sunday was horrific. Not because something happened, but because it didn't. Nothing. She never glanced my way, she never glared, never grumbled, never nothing. She just sat there like I wasn't there. Like I wasn't a part of the family. Like I didn't exist.

I still don't seem to exist.

This morning, on our way to school, Spencer actually acted civil. There were no glares, not even directed at Glen which is usually the norm.

_It was like I wasn't there._

_"So, Spence, I heard Madison is throwing a huge party tonight, are you going?"_

Glen's looking in the rear-view mirror, trying to gain his sister's  
attention. I can't see her expression, but her voice seems tired, but friendly.

"Like I have a choice, Mads will go crazy if I don't show up. I swear that girl is like, in love with me or something. Ew, no, I did not say that...!"

Glen is laughing, and I wish I could see Spencer's face, see the grimace on her face as she utters that last line. I don't laugh with them, knowing it's not appropriate. I'm not a part of their banter, and therefore I'm not supposed to impose.

"Anyway, yeah I'm going, I'm supposed to hang with Brendan, he's been stomping after me for months, and Mads just won't stop her match-making before I at least try him out."

Spencer mutters the last part of her sentence sarcastically, and I'm not sure if there's a smirk or a cringe on her face. Just like I'm not sure what expression is mirrored on mine.

"God, Spence, isn't it about time you just pick one already, I hate being the brother of the slut...! And Brendan's on the team, I really

really_ don't want the details of _your_night with him...!"_

Glen is making the most ridiculous disgusted face, and although I know I'm breaking the unwritten rules of this conversation, I can't help but giggle.

"Gleeen!" is said exasperatedly from the backseat, as the owner of the voice just ignores my entry to the conversation, followed by a hand smacking him across the back of his head.

It's the first real proof of their relation to each other.

It's the first time I've seen them banter like real siblings,

and it's the first time I realize that maybe it's been this way all along, that maybe

I_am the reason they seemed so distant._

That

I_am the obstacle keeping them apart, keeping them always at an arms length away from each other._

Maybe Spencer wasn't the trigger of the tension in the house.

Maybe it was me all along.

I'm under my bed.

Yes.

Under my bed.

Glen's trying to locate me, and we're _not_ playing hide and seek.

I'm hiding from him, and his stupid invitation to the party tonight.

Oh, who am I kidding?

It's not the stupid party I'm afraid of, it's the fact that Glen and  
Spencer is going _together_. As siblings. And my previous revelations is keeping me from joining them.

And let's not forget the fact that it's _Spencer_ going too.

Because of my fright of Spencer, mixed with the eerie feeling I have of me destroying their relationship, I'm content on staying under this bed until they leave.

No suck luck.

"Ashley! Why the hell are you under your bed? Don't even think that you're getting out of your obligation to assist me to this party! I have no date! I can't show up with just Spencer, she's my sister!"

He's dragging me by my feet out from under the bed, I at first desperately try to hold onto something, but unfortunately, my nails aren't sharp enough to dig into the floor.

I turn around on my back when he's got me fully out, and give him the best scowl I can muster.

"Have you just suddenly forgotten that I'm your sister too, hm?"

He's looking at me weirdly, before ignoring my comment for the time being.

"Look who's suddenly become one feisty young woman here, I don't remember her moving in just a few months ago...!"

He's grinning at me, while reaching out to help me up from the floor. He continues,

"I like it though, make you more..._interesting_"

He winks at me, and drags me completely up to his level, a little too close to him.

I stumble backwards, not wanting to invade his personal space (or mine), and sit down gruffly on the bed, crossing my arms.

He looks at me, grin replaced by concern, and I have to do something to not make him worry. I know I can't tell him what's really bothering me, he's gonna feel guilty, I know it. And not just that, he's gonna try even more to unite us all as a family, and I don't want that, I don't want anything to be forced.

So I do my best at overplaying annoyance, blowing the loose strands of hair out of my sight, and muttering something about 'not having anything to wear'.

It doesn't take more than 5 seconds before he's sitting down beside me, an arm comfortingly around my shoulder, he knows there's something up. Surprisingly, he doesn't verbally acknowledge it, probably hoping some shown affection will do more good. I smile, 'cause he just seem to know me, he gets me.

"It's not a prom, Ash, it's just a stupid party, we're all gonna be so drunk that no one is gonna notice what you wear anyway! Just loose those sweatpants you're wearing and get some jeans on, it's not gonna take more than that."

I search my mind for another excuse not to go, and as I'm about to voice the best one I can think of, I turn and look at him. His blue eyes emits such warmth that I can't help but oblige.

And I can't help but regret it 1 minute later, when Glen has left the room to let me change.


	8. Sitting Duck

**Sitting Duck**

The tip of my tongue touches the top of my beer bottle , as my eyes are cast outside the car window. The air is strained, as I know I'm not supposed to be here, I'm not supposed to intrude. Glen is darting his eyes back and forth between me and the road, as if unsure if bringing me along to this party was that clever after all. The taste of beer is making me want to cringe, but I manage to stay stoic, forcing my attention on the passing cars.

Spencer is in the backseat, along with Brendan. Needless to day, she was drunk before she even left the house, and she sure isn't wasting any time in 'trying him out'. They barely exchanged a word before they were all over each other. The sounds from the backseat is thankfully muted as Glen is listening to some hip-hop song at full volume.

I feel sorry for him, he's not supposed to see what is happening between his sister and his teammate, he's not supposed to hear his sister moan some random guy's name, he's not supposed to have to even imagine the scenario happening in the backseat.

Still, he doesn't say anything, doesn't do anything. He lets her get away with it, and I can't help but feel he's letting her down. He's not defending her, not telling her off, not stopping her destructive ways of living.

I can't help but think he's not being the brother _she_ deserves.

Spencer and Brendan is gone, along with Glen.

I look around the room, it's filled with so many people, still I feel like I have no one to talk to. I don't know anyone here, and sadly, I don't feel like getting to know any of them either.

I know I'm stereotyping when calling all of the participants in this party losers, along with being a hypocrite, but I've never been a fan of drunk people. I don't know if it's their wild behavior, their drunken slurring, or the fact that I've just never been wasted before that makes me despise them, but I have a feeling tonight will help me find out. Because I'm heading in the same direction as everyone else; the drunken state of mind.

Someone bumps into me, and I spill my beer over my pants, making sure I will reek of beer when I get home to the Carlin's tonight. The girl doesn't even apologize, as she stumbles further into the room, throwing herself at a random jock who happily gropes her back. That's the fourth guy she's been necking with, and it's barely past 10pm. I look behind me to see if Glen is somewhere around, but I can't seem to locate him. At least I thought he would make this night better, but he's nowhere to be found.

5th beer residing on my pants, I make my way to the kegger, hoping to find something a bit more tasteful, a bit more strong, 'cause I know being sober at this party is the last thing I wanna be. The drink being shoved into my hand by a short Puerto Rican guy is looking mighty suspicious when there's a pill innocently laying in the bottom of the plastic cup, and I carefully slip the drink into the soil of a plant nearby. Maybe I'm not used to the party scene, but I sure as hell ain't stupid.

Having wandered the house for the last hour, I'm starting to know my way around, and I faintly remember something along the lines of a liquor cabinet down the hall.

God.

I am soooo dizzy.

It's like it's boiling up there, in my head, I guess that last sip wasn't needed after all.

It still burns down my throat, as I make my way into the kitchen, pushing a guy out of my way as I desperately get myself a glass of water. And this people intentionally get themselves into?

Someone's talking to me, and I'm somehow talking back. It's not my head though, talking, it's just my mouth spouting out meaningless and stupid stuff, but I can't seem to stop it. My hair is sticking to my forehead, I'm hot as hell, and my previously perfect hair is just a mess.

Have I been dancing? I think I have.

There's more people milling around me, and everyone's looking at  
me. Why are they looking at me? Oh, I'm talking, that's right. What am I talking about? Something about Glen's incident with the-.. Oh no, I'm talking about Glen's incident with the curling iron!

Some guy is touching my side, but the only evidence of it is me seeing it, I can't feel its touch. People are talking again, and I have no idea about what, until I hear the infamous name uttered from a tall, blond girl.

"...Spencer's new sister, aren't you?"

I know I'm answering yes, but the words following are blurry, I hope  
it's nothing bad being told from my lips, I would never intentionally  
say anything bad about Spencer. So she's a bitch, I can't blame her, she's not the one intruding _my_ family, I'm the one messing up hers. Oh no, I'm not saying this aloud, am I?

An arm gently tugging at my upper arm is starting to increase it's force, and I at last give my attention to the owner of the arm. Glen. Aaaw, Glen, I haven't seen him in ages! I love Glen! Glen is the best brother in the whole wide world! Why is he tugging so hard? I don't want him to touch me, don't touch me Glen, I can touch myself! Huh? I'm suddenly giggling, and someone's arms are around me, leading me into the hallway. Something blue is in front of me, and the eyes owning the blueness is looking at me with concern.

"Ashley, how much have you been drinking?"

I haven't been drinking! ...Maybe a weeee bit? Tiny weeny weeee bit? Thiiis little! Glen, your eyes are so blue, why are they so blue? Mine are brown, but I like your blue ones better, can I borrow them? 'Cause then they will match Spencer's ones, and Spencer's ones are gorgeous! What's with the harsh look Glen is giving me, what have I done?

"Ash, please, just... Just please stop drinking, okey?"

What the hell happened, why am I cold? I touch my head, and it's wet. Wet! Why is it wet! I look up to my side, and see some girl laughing hysterically, she did this, she made me wet! And cold! She's so not getting away with this, I stand up and give her the best glare known to man, before an arm is suddenly ripping at her hair, hmm, wonder who's arm that is? Muaha, it's so mine, she's so getting her own medicine!

Someone is pushing my face in front of theirs, who is this person, I don't wanna face anyone! Oh, it's Glen, why is he so close to me, why is he holding me so hard?

"ASHLEY! You need to stop now, or I'll drive you home in this state, and mom and dad are gonna kill you!"

There's no hair in my hand anymore, the loose strands have been tossed to the ground, and my cheeks have gotten wet. My eyes sting, Glen's mad at me! I don't want Glen to be mad at me, I'm a bad sister, he's not gonna want me anymore...! He's gonna stop caring about me like he's stopped caring about his real sister!

He's not touching me anymore, not holding me up. Instead, his face is filled with disappointment, sadness, and it's making my head clear up a little. Why is Glen so sad? I search my memory, and can't think of anyth-... Oh no, I did NOT say that out loud! Please say I didn't tell him he doesn't care about his sister, please please please!

"Let's just get you to the bathroom upstairs, no one really knows it's there, so you'll get time to clean up, okey?"

I'm being helped up the stairs, and when I'm sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Glen gently closes the door, and I'm suddenly left with just myself.

The bathroom is so warm and nice, and I can't help but feel drowsy, as I lean slowly backwards-... OUCH! I hit my head in the bathtub, stupid bathtub! Hmmm, it sure is comfortable though..

There's someone opening the door, I'm half dead in the tub, but I still hear it opening as the sounds from outside invades the bathroom. I'm not as drunk anymore, I must've slept some of it off, thank God for that, the few glimpses I remember is enough to make me wanna die.

I slowly open my eyes, adjusting to the lightness of the room, before I make out the figure in front of the door.

Oh no.

I hurriedly try to stand up, knocking down various shampoo bottles as I step out of the tub and clutch at side of the wall. I still haven't averted my gaze, as this is the first time in a week that she's looking into my eyes.

Her body looks tired, lifeless, where she's slumped against the door, but her eyes is speaking something entirely different. They're intense, boring into me, much like the last time I encountered her in a drunken state. While I just one day prior would've done anything to make her took at me, I now regret it. Because I still can't read her. Her eyes doesn't give me the slightest clue as to what she's feeling, what she's thinking. They're blocking my attempt to read them, while still reading my eyes perfectly. She can see the worry, the fear, emanating from within me, and I get this eerie feeling that she's storing it, reading my thoughts just to use them against me.

She's no longer against the door, as she's shuffling closer to me, stopping right in front of me. My arms hang lifelessly down my sides, and however much I want to hold them up to protect me, I can't. I'm paralyzed by her stare, and she's loving it.

A hand is being pressed against the wall on one side of my face.

Another hand is being pressed against the wall on the other side of my face.

I'm caught. Unable to move. Unable to escape.

I'm trembling, literally shaking, as sweat is threatening to appear on my forehead from the intensity of her stare.

She suddenly swiftly moves her body closer to me, and as a reflex, my arms move in front of me, protecting me from the blow I'm awaiting.

She chuckles low in her throat, a small smirk appearing on her lips, and she's so close to me that I can't see both her eyes and lips at the same time.

She doesn't seem to like that I broke her stare.

Before I've got time to comprehend what's happening, she's got my wrists in a grip against the wall, and a leg pressed between my own. She's got me securely locked.

And not just literally.

Why is she doing this? What's happening? Oh God, I can feel her breath on my ear, she's brought her head so close to me that we're practically cheek to cheek, and my breathing quickens.

"How does it feel to have someone so close to you, huh? Have someone invading your personal space without your consent, trapping you in a compromising position? It's not so funny now, is it?"

She roughly releases her grip on me, and the lips almost touching my ear have been removed as far away from me as possible, as Spencer walks backwards toward the door.

"Your little joke on me a week ago doesn't seem so clever anymore, does it? Just don't think you'll ever get away with doing something like that again, are we clear?"

She's by the door now, grabbing at the door handle, not yet opening the door.

The menace in her voice, the ice cold glare directed my way, her previous mind-trick, it all is too much for me, as I slowly sink down the wall. I can't help but let out a small whimper, a sad, frightened whimper, and as I chance one final look at her, I finally see something.

Something I've been searching for.

Something I never thought I would ever see in this moment, after what she just made me go through.

An opening.

The door inside her eyes is momentarily unlocked, and although I can only see through the keyhole, I still see something.

Something unmistakably resembling regret.


	9. Take Another Track

****

Take another track

I stayed in that bathroom until Glen came and picked me up an hour later. The tear stains on my face leaving dry paths down my cheeks, my face motionless. He knew something was wrong, those tears weren't from earlier that night when I had cried over Glen being mad at me. Those tears were not ones of drunken drama, not ones of silly misunderstanding, not ones of hysteria.

The map my dried tears drew on my face was of utter loss, of defeat, of despair. And he saw it. Hell, who wouldn't have, with the way I was lying lifeless against the wall, in the same exact position I had sunken down from the wall in an hour before.

I didn't even walk myself down the stairs and into the car, Glen did it for me. All I did was cling myself as much into him as possible, grabbing onto the comfort his strong frame gave me as he held me in his arms down the stairs and into the car. Not once did he ask me anything, I think he knew it wouldn't have mattered, I wouldn't have answered. He carefully lowered me into the passenger seat and tucked a blanket from the trunk around me, before safely securing me with the belt. He then headed into the driver's seat, but not before placing a loving kiss at the top of my head.

I can't explain how much comfort Glen gave me that night.

That night.

It's only the day after, and already I've named it _that night_.

I bet you would too, if you knew how horrendous that night was.

The hangover following it is just the icing on the cake, really.

Remember how I was envying Spencer her hangover a week ago?

I'm not so much anymore. Although it sure is better that it's my head threatening to explode from the inside out, as opposed to my thoughts threatening to do the exact same thing.

God, I'm thirsty.

And this hangover won't get the least bit better if I don't get rehydrated soon. I have two options. Bathroom or kitchen. Both are forcing me to walk past the door or horrors, the mouth of hell.

One might wonder how I can be so sure of Spencer being home when you think about all the people she's screwing. But I know for a fact that she is. She always is. She's been dating 3 guys in the time I've been living with the Carlin's, and now I'm not counting the numerous one night stands I'm sure she's having one hell of a lot of. But not once has she not been here in the morning. I wish I could deny this, deny the fact that I've been thinking about her, wondering why she never stays over. But I can't deny it, 'cause that's exactly what I've been doing. More than a few times, when I've been unable to sleep, have I speculated as to why she acts the way she does, and one of the quirks that fascinate me is her need to always get home at the end of the night. How she never wakes up with anyone, how she always wakes up in this house, in her own bed, alone.

She never brings anyone over either. I've never seen a single person enter her room except family members, and I'm curious as to why. Sure, she's not super secret about her room, I've seen her door opened on various occasions, but I don't think it's the room in itself that's so secret. I think it's her. I think it's something personal, and she's not ready to share it with anyone.

At least that's what I thought, but now, after yesterday's confrontation, I'm not sure what to think anymore. And I'm not sure I wanna think about her at all anymore. She's been occupying my mind for too long, and she doesn't deserve it, she's never deserved it.

Therefore, I gently rise from my drug-induced coma, closed eyelids  
trying to minimize the throbbing in my brain, feet stomping towards the door leading into the hallway. Head poked out, eyes barely opened, no one in sight. A hand clasping my forehead, comforter tugged closely around me, I make my way down the hallway, shuffling into Glen's flip flops as they lay scattered around. Eyes cast to the floor, not wanting any direct light into my eyes, I don't see the person bumping into me. As I raise my sight to look at the person, I feel something being pushed into my unoccupied hand before the person rushes past me and slams a door shut. I'm not fast enough to glance at the person doing it, but I don't need to. Those fingertips did not belong to a man, neither did they belong to someone of age, those fingertips belonged to none other than a young, blond, gorgeous girl with the most menacing personality known to man.

And this is the exact reason why I'm terrified of the feel of her fingertips touching mine. The want to feel them again, the need of touching more, the longing to see her blue, blue eyes again.

And as I cast my eyes downward, a chill runs up my spine.

A note of hate wouldn't have surprised me.

Something hurtful would've been expected.

But this renders me speechless.

She just gave me a bottle of aspirin.

---


	10. Road To Damascus

**Road To Damascus**

I wipe my forehead before giving the bag in front of me another punch. I've been doing this a lot lately, hitting the shit out of a poor, innocent bag of sand. First Glen had to drag me out here, but now I willingly oblige when he asks me. I still haven't been the one to ask first, to initiate a work out session. It's not that I'm afraid to ask him, I'm so comfortable around Glen now that being myself around him without any extra guard isn't something I have to strive for. It comes naturally. 'Cause Glen is not the problem. He's not the reason why I don't ask him to go to the gym. Neither is the work out session in itself. I treasure the times we spend together in the gym, even though we're usually in our own separate worlds. I treasure the timeout from daily duties, blocking out every occurring thought fighting for dominance.

The problem in itself isn't based on outer factors. Asking a question doesn't necessarily need to have a common bond to the thing you're asking. I don't have a problem with the theme of a question, or how it is pronounced. It is the question in itself, the expectation of a reciprocation, a reply, that sends a chill up my spine.

However welcome and supportive the Carlin's have been since I moved in with them, some things doesn't leave without a fight. What makes it even worse is the fact that it's all rooted in me. I'm my own enemy, battling for balance between the different sides of my personality.

When I first entered this house, I had major troubles even with my physical appearance. I didn't know where to look, how to act, when to speak. I've come a long way from those insecure times, but there's still things I have to work on.

Like asking for someone's time.

---

He's no longer doing his push ups when I look in Glen's direction. Instead, he's aimlessly walking back and worth, with a hint of worry etched across his forehead. He's not far away from me, and I can see the creases in his forehead disappear as I take in his body language. His right hand is picking at his sweatpants, his shoulders slouched forward. His jaw is clenched while his left hand is holding the phone up to his ear, he's obviously oblivious to his own demeanor as he listens intently to the voice inside his phone. It doesn't seem like a pleasant conversation, as Glen is usually the happy type, always grinning or making a joke. I'm not sure if I should walk toward him or just leave him be, but his knitted eyebrows makes me choose the latter. He's obviously having a serious conversation, and I'm pretty sure he doesn't want any interruptions.

As he clicks the phone shut, he doesn't put it in his pockets, nor does he slip it into his bag where it previously resided. His feet travel the same aimless path as before, and his head hangs low. A hand is being pressed against the side of his head, before he looks up and meets my gaze. He's obviously upset, and the expression in his eyes tell me that I'm allowed to ask him what's wrong. I walk hurriedly toward him, concern the emotion that drives me.

"Uhm, my grandmother just died", he says, pain evident in his voice. All I can do is walk straight up to him, and although this is not how I normally behave, I can't help but envelope Glen in a hug. It's a clammy one, due to the excessive amount of physical exercise we've been participating in the last hour, and I can smell the unpleasant scent of his sweat, but it doesn't matter, right now I just want to comfort the guy in front of me.

---

It would be a lie to say that I enjoyed these last 6 hours of road I've been traveling. It didn't help one bit that I was sat between Spencer and Glen either. I've never been a fan of sitting in the middle, a wee bit higher than the ones situated on my sides. The fact that we're pressed into each other ,added to the discomfort of being afraid of getting too close to either of them, is making this trip that much more horrific. I can barely feel my ass where I'm sitting, and the tension of trying to stay in the same spot in every sharp turn, and not to suddenly lean over either one of them, is making me feel absolutely exhausted.  
Not that it would be so horrible to fall over Glen, I know for a fact that Glen wouldn't have minded, he's a good guy. It's the fact that on my other side a girl I'm not so comfortable around is seated, and I wouldn't want it to look weird when I fell on Glen and not on her.

So it probably isn't a big shock to say I am utterly thankful when we arrive at the hotel we're staying at before the funeral tomorrow. It's Arthur's mom that died, and although the whole family seems sad at the loss of a family member, none of them is in deep sorrow. As Arthur said, they had been expecting it for over a year, and with the pain his mom was living in, it was more of a blessing than a curse that she passed away. His only sorrow it seems, is that he never got to introduce her to me, the newest member of the family. God, I can't even describe how loved I felt when he uttered that sentence, how much I felt like I belonged.

The hotel isn't overly fancy, but it's not some dingy motel either. As we step into it, we're met by a tiny bald man who happens to wear the funniest looking glasses I've ever seen. If you don't count Dame Edna's.

"Welcome, can I get you a room?" is all I hear before I follow Glen down the hall and plop down next to him as he sits down on a couch. Spencer stays with her parents, and while they arrange rooms for the night, Glen and I throw a tiny, soft basketball back and forth between  
us to keep us occupied. It's not long after that the rest of the family appears right in front of us, and while I notice them from where I'm sitting, Glen doesn't, and while I throw the ball towards him, Paula says his name, effectively making the ball hit him square in the face. Everyone chuckles except Spencer.

"Okey, so the rooms have been arranged, I hope it's no problem for you to share a room with Spencer, Ash?"

"Uh, okey...sure", is all I can mutter, as I force my eyes to not look at Spencer's expression. Though it doesn't keep me from seeing the indifferent look on her face from the corner of my eyes. Of course I'm afraid, I'm literally shaking in my boots, but somehow during the last week, the fear has slowly lessened. I have my suspicions that it was the small glimpse of a human being inside her when she gave me the aspirin a week ago that has left me less frightened. It gave me a glimpse of emotion from the other girl, not counting the various glares and _the_ hateful confrontation in Madison's bathroom, and somehow it gave me a tiny fraction of hope.

Glen's carrying my suitcase before I have time to register that everyone's walking in the direction of their rooms. I try to grab it from him, telling him I can do it on my own, but he refuses to let me carry it myself. 'It's a man's duty' apparently. Seeing Spencer drag her own luggage into the elevator, Glen carrying my tiny suitcase, is making me feel uneasy, like something is not quite right. Why isn't Glen carrying his sister's suitcase? Why isn't he helping _her_ instead of me? It's not like I'm incapable of carrying my own luggage, and it's not like I'm new to this family anymore.

As we find mine and Spencer's room, Glen shuffles further down the corridor, turns around a corner and out of sight. I fidget with my key card as Spencer puts her own into its lock, opening the door with ease. Thank God it wasn't me that had to open it, I would've spent an hour trying to steady my hand enough to fit the key card into the lock. It's just what Spencer does to me.

I barely notice that she's walked into the room before the door almost locks behind her, and I rush forward, pinning my shoe between the door and the door frame. My attention focused on the way I behave, I barely manage to notice what's going on around me.  
As I enter the room hesitantly, my eyes bug out, and I have to refrain from taking a sharp intake of breath. As I see the double bed in front of me, I can't help but look longingly at the uncomfortable-looking couch on the opposite side of the room, pained at the prospect of having to share a bed with Spencer.  
It's not rooted in disgust of sleeping next to a girl, especially not a gorgeous girl like Spencer, but it's the fact that it forces _her_ to sleep next to _me_. I don't want her to feel annoyed at having to share a bed with me, even though it's big enough for us to not share any space at all. Still, it makes me feel uneasy and uncomfortable.

A loud thud breaks the silence in the room, as Spencer's suitcase has fallen off the bed it previously occupied, and her clothes are shattered all over, making her curse softly under her breath. My first thought is to help her, and as a second, more reserved thought threatens to overcome the first one, I leap forward in an attempt to stop my head from overpowering what my heart tells me to do.  
I almost crash into her from the quick movement, and as I fall down on my knees, trying to locate all the stuff that has rolled out of the suitcase, I accidentally bump my shoulder into hers.

There's no immediate response from her, as she continues to grab all the stuff that's scattered around, and I mirror her actions. However much I want to deny it, I can't help but feel relief flood inside of me at the prospect of Spencer not being appalled by bumping into me.

But what really gets my mind reeling is the feeling of her eyes suddenly being on me. I'm afraid of turning around, realizing it's not me she's looking at at all, but at the same time dying to know if it really is me her eyes are focused on. I know it's going to haunt me forever if I don't turn around at this particular moment, still I cant' help but chicken out and focus all of my attention at the task at hand; gathering up all her stuff.

I slowly build up my courage to look her way when Glen frantically knocks on the door, begging us to open up. I swear that guy just can't stay alone more than five minutes at a time. While I usually love his company, treasure it, right now I'm having mixed feelings about the intrusion. He's always there to save me from the awkward moments, but for the first time when I've been around Spencer, this time the awkwardness felt oddly intriguing.

"So, you guys wanna go check out this hotel or what?"

The smile on Glen's face is infectious, and I can't stay mad at him for even a second. I know he only means well. I turn my head in Spencer's direction, and she's not looking at me anymore. I don't even know if she was looking at me in the first place, but strangely, I don't wanna think about the possibility that she wasn't. The mere idea of her eyes scanning my features is enough to make my body tense up, and while I know I shouldn't be thinking these thoughts, I can't help but entertain them, 'cause they feel oddly pleasant.

"If there's nothing else to do", is muttered from Spencer's lips, and I have to rip my eyes away from her as I'm about to give my own reply to Glen's question. Thing is, I don't have a chance, as Glen shouts "Wicked!" before dragging me by my hand out the door, Spencer reluctantly following.

----

"We have a pool!"

"Think it's too late to jump in?"

"Glen!"

"What?!"

"It's 12, do you really think the pool's open this late?!"

"So what, it's not like anyone's gonna notice!"

"Then go jump in the fucking pool then, mom and dad is gonna be thrilled when we get kicked out of the hotel we're staying at for our granny's funeral!" is all I hear when I'm about to come up with a witty reply to Glen's invitation for a reckless night in the pool. It's the first whole sentence uttered from Spencer since we left the room an hour earlier.

That's the thing about being around Glen. He's so happy and fun to be around that I usually forget the current situation, as what just occurred. Spencer, on the other side, hasn't been chipper at all. Shocking, no? Well, the shocking thing to me isn't that Spencer never participated in any of the rants between me and Glen, what shocks me is that even being accompanied by a chipper Glen, I still haven't forgotten that Spencer is around. I'm still completely aware of her presence wherever we're at. It's uncomfortable, tense, nothing to hope for at all, still I can't help but feel the need to follow Spencer when she says she's tired and wants to go to sleep.

"You guys do whatever, I'm going to bed"

"Spencer, wait, I'll uh-... I'll go now too."

"Whatever."

I internally cringe at her comment, although expecting something awfully worse from her. For some reason, I rather wish for anger, frustration, menace, than to be met with indifference. It could be all the years in foster care, it could be years of neglect, but the sheer thought of disregard pains me more than anything. I'd rather be hated than to be nothing at all.

She's walking away from me, and as I skip to keep up with her, Glen softly turns me around with his hand and envelopes me in a hug.

"Goodnight, Ash. Call me if it gets too ugly, okey?"

I only smile, before turning around and following Spencer down the hall.

She's already well inside the room when I enter, a pair of shorts and a tank top in her hands. At least I know what she's sleeping in then. Believe me, even what to wear to bed crossed my mind several times, not wanting to wear the wrong thing, too much or too little. I swear that girl is going to be the death of me. It's like every little detail becomes so much more important when I'm around her, and I don't know why. I can't understand why this particular girl has gotten me so tensed up when I've met a fair share of fucked up people in my life.

--

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Fuck.

I can't do this.

I'm sleeping with half my body off the edge of the bed, even though Spencer's not even close to being on my side of it. I take back everything I said about the tension being oddly fascinating, I take it all back. I can't stand it, laying this close to Spencer, not daring to ruffle the sheets or breathe loud enough for her to hear.

She's not making any sound either.

I sigh soundlessly, before getting some courage and roll myself around so I'm in the middle of my side of the bed. Her back is turned towards me, her hair spread across the pillow, some of it gently touching her shoulder. The darkness of the room is broken by the sheen of the lamp post outside our window, and it's making it easier for me to look at her. Her blanket it tucked halfway up her torso, and it looks like she's sleeping on one of her hands. I'm not entirely sure since she's facing the other way, but the mere prospect of her sleeping like that makes me want to smile. There's something oddly reassuring with seeing someone sleep. However harsh and inhuman they seem while awake, everyone becomes this peaceful being, it's showing how human they really are. The way her hair is situated, some of it making an indentation on her skull, is surely gonna give her a nice hairstyle in the morning. This time I can't help but smile. Another thing I love about the peacefulness of sleep. You can't help what happens, however perfect or unreachable one might appear in daylight, the way a body moves in the night is instinctive, uncontrolled. You can't help but end up with a bad hairdo, or tired eyes, or marks from the bedsheets on your body.  
I'm not stupid, I know you can teach your body to act somewhat the way you want it, even in your sleep, but there's no certainty it's going to listen. There's no guarantee you'll end up how you hoped you would when the morning arises.

She's stirring quietly, and as I trail my wandering eyes up to her head again, she happens to turn around, eyes meeting mine. If it weren't for sleep fogging my mind, I undoubtedly would've turned away, closed my eyes, pretended to be asleep. But I don't. I meet her gaze, sleep overtaking her features just as much as mine, breaking her attitude down, leaving her bare. She blinks a few times, each time the eyelids falling heavier, at last accepting defeat, sleep overtaking her. And as I join her, closing my own, I hear one sentence whispered from her lips.

"Please don't lead him on."

---


	11. On A Sticky Wicket

**On a sticky wicket**

The insides of my eyelids are lighter than the night before, annoying me out of my sleep. I groan loudly, feeling the effects of a restless sleep. I've got a slight headache threatening to appear, while the sheets I remember being wrapped around me last night now have been kicked to the foot of the bed.  
I force my eyes open, looking out of the opened window, a slight breeze cooling my already cold body. As I remember the window not being open when I went to sleep last night, I remember I'm not alone in this room. I lay still, hoping to hear any sounds indicating where Spencer is located. No luck. The room is completely silent, no rustling of sheets, no water running in the bathroom, no eerie feeling of Spencer's presence. I chance a look behind me, finding the bed unmade, unoccupied. No trace of Spencer anywhere.

The walk to Glen's room is silent, no one else walking the corridors. I can't help but wonder where Spencer is, although I'm not frightened for her, she probably just got up earlier than me. It was proved when I saw her suitcase packed and ready to go, and although I should have been relieved to have the room to myself, no awkwardness present, I surprisingly wasn't.  
I couldn't help but let my mind wander to the night before, Spencer uttering those words with such pleading emotion in them. Before those small words escaped her lips, I had never witnessed any sense of care coming from Spencer. She always seemed too self-absorbed, too into herself to ever see what happened around her, how much her indifference also hurt her own brother.  
It's the only thing I've been thinking about since I trudged into the bathroom, took a longer than necessary shower, blow dried my hair, put classy make up on and stepped into the black dress bought for the funeral.

As I reach Glen's door, I knock on it lightly, not feeling comfortable with any loud sounds on a day of grief. It takes a while before he opens, and as I'm expecting him to open the door and ask me to step in, he doesn't. His hand is pressed against the door sill, the other one clutching the door, keeping him trapped in the middle. It's confusing me, the sudden uninviting nature of his movements, but as I take a quick glance behind him, I see a girl resembling his sister sitting on the bed, hands folded in her lap.

Glen's face is telling me something, begging me to let it go, to not question his sudden retreat of welcomeness. I nod, barely noticeable, as I tell Glen I'm gonna wait in the lobby.

The funeral was to be expected. I've been to several, we had a lot of old ladies helping out at the orphanage, and whenever one of them died, we always showed up, showed our gratitude towards the person giving up their time to spend it with us. It didn't matter that several of them were nagging old hypocrites, only showing up to get their free card into heaven, we still showed them the respect it was expected of us to show.

They're burying her right now, the grandmother I never got to meet. All her children and grandchildren are present, everyone having had a relationship to the woman they're now saying goodbye to. However wrong it is to think these thoughts when I'm currently standing here, showing my respect to a woman I've never met, it's impossible for me to shut out the thought of not relating. I can't relate to the feelings they're all sharing with each other, what unites them here today, their common bond to the person being laid into the ground. I've never had a grandmother, never had that bond to someone, the feeling of being loved unconditionally by a person who does everything in their power to spoil you.

I never knew you could miss something you never had.

But as I'm blocking out the preaching of the priest, these thoughts invade my mind, and I can't help but feel a grief of my own, the grief of never getting to experience what these people have, the love and respect for someone of their own blood.

Arthur's hand is clasped in Paula's, her hand squeezing every now and then, giving him comfort, showing him that she's there, with him. Glen is looking down, I think he's trying to hold in his tears, softly kicking the ground beneath him to distract his tears from doing what they  
want to, need to.  
My eyes wander over to Spencer who's not showing any emotion, a face stoic, hard, hands pressed into fists, hair blowing in front of her eyes blocking some of her view. She's wearing a black dress, one obviously not bought for a funeral, as it is too nice, too complimentary for such an occasion. I wonder when the last time she wore it was. On a date, out on the town, for a holiday, for Christmas.

They're walking into groups, me standing a few feet away from all of them, not feeling comfortable in this situation with these unknown people surrounding me. I stay in the background until Arthur is shouting my name in a delicate manner, high enough for everyone to hear but not loud enough to shatter their peacefulness. He's waving me over, where he's talking to a tall dark-haired man, obviously related to Arthur himself.

"Ashley, I want you to meet my brother, Ben", he says touching both of our shoulders, leading us into closer encounter with one another.

"Ben, this is our new family member, her name is Ashley."

Ben holds out his hand and I take it, not quite sure how to handle this situation, how to behave when you meet someone important at such a sombre day. His hand is pressing mine a bit harder than I feel necessary and his eyes never match Arthur's welcome ones.

"So you're the girl my brother absolutely had to bring with him here".

He's not saying it in a light, warm manner, there's no lingering smile under the bemused expression on his face. He's not welcoming me, he treats me like an intruder, someone not worthy of witnessing this intimate happening taking place.

"Uhm, yeah", is all I managed to reply, how are you supposed to reply to something like that?

"Well, Arthur, I'm gonna go back to my wife and son, Craig have been so upset over the loss of his grandmother, I don't think he's up to par with meeting anyone not related right now."

Before Arthur gets to reply, he's walking in the opposite direction, clearly not interested in further interaction with neither me or Arthur. I should be mad at the way the man treated both me and his brother, but all I feel is sadness, the meaning behind his words hitting a spot I never knew was so easily accessible.  
Before Arthur gets to reassure me that Ben didn't mean anything with it, I give him a quick smile before I stutter out a sentence about sitting down on the bench further down the path. I don't want him to console me on the day of his mother's funeral, he shouldn't be the one doing the consoling, I should. I don't have any relation to this woman, I shouldn't feel the way I do. I should be the one comforting, talking soothingly, helping them, not the one receiving it.

The bench is cold against me, as the dress doesn't isolate much warmth between the fabric and my skin. The view presented to me is of everyone present at the funeral, every member of the extended Carlin family. People that mean something to the family, that holds a special place in their hearts however much they might disagree on matters. However many differences that makes them unsuitable as friends, they still have something uniting them, gravitating them towards each other, keeping them in touch.

I've never had that.

"Glen's busy talking to his cousin."

I felt her presence the minute she walked up to the bench even though she wasn't in my line of sight. I felt her even more when she sat down next to me, holding her coat around her, blocking out something not related to cold, as the weather has been on the good side today. I tensed up the minute her shoulder touched mine, and however much I wanted to turn around and look at her, I couldn't. The closeness being too much. And as her lips form the words of a sentence, I can't help it anymore, I turn my face just a fraction, needing to see just a little bit of her, even if it's in my peripheral vision.

She's not looking at me when she nods her head towards the group of people a distance away from me, but it's obvious she has been looking. She thinks my searching eyes have been looking for Glen, when the reality is I never even thought about him. He didn't even cross my mind as my eyes wandered between the different bodies in the distance, my eyes searching for only one face, one unreadable, inexpressible being. And seeing as I just found her, behind my line of vision, I no longer search the view in front of me, instead opting to let my eyes glaze over, not focusing on anything.

"I wasn't looking for him."

I don't know why I let that escape my lips, I could've pretended she was right, that Glen was the reason for my desperately wandering eyes and not the girl sitting right next to me.

"Then who were you looking for?"

Her voice is scarily soft, there's no menace hidden in it, no scowl, no accusation. I try to form a legitimate response when her words really hit me. _Then who _were_ you looking for?_.

She has noticed my eyes no longer scanning the crowd, and her sentence sends a chill down my spine, does she know I was looking for her? The realization that it could be true makes me forget about my silent promise to never face her entirely, and as my head whips around in her direction, I notice her own eyes looking straight into mine. It doesn't last long though, as her cell phone breaks the silence of our stare, and she's fast to answer it.

"Hey Mads."

"No, no one important."

"I'm not sure, I might show up for cheer practice, but I won't show up for school tomorrow."

"Because we're driving home tonight and won't get home before late."

"Hey, it's a day off with a legitimate reason, I don't always need to  
show my face at school..!"

"I know Mads, but you've got a million minions following you around all the time, spend some time with them..!"

"Yeah, I miss you too-..."

That's the last bit of her conversation I'm able to overhear as she's by now several feet away from me, having walked away when the phone conversation started. Two things is now occupying my mind.

Number one. Who brings a cell phone to a funeral and doesn't put it on silence or off?

Number two. No one important?

I know I'm no one important to her, I'm probably the least important person to her, but hearing her say it, actually voice it out, is making it hurt much more than it should.

And I don't like it.

At least I didn't have to sit in the middle on our way home. Although having Spencer in the middle isn't helping my reeling mind any either. We're three hours into the ride home, and Glen took over for Arthur, Paula volunteering to sit in the back with me and Spencer. They're sound asleep, both of them, Arthur talking lowly to Glen up front, keeping him awake. Spencer's head is laying on Paula's shoulder while Paula is resting against the door, head bumping every now and then into the window.

I've been looking at them a bit too much the last half an hour, but the view is just so appealing. It's the first time I've seen them act like mother and daughter, and it's in their sleep. The look on their face is more similar than I would imagine it to be, and I can see the resemblance in their expression and features, both having straight, blond hair, both having the same skin tone, Spencer's a tad bit tanner probably due to more time out in the sun. there's a furrow between Paula's eyebrows, barely visible when she's relaxed, but I've seen it prominent when she's frustrated or annoyed. As I glance over at Spencer, I can see the outline of a similar furrow threatening to appear on the same spot.

I try to not make my staring obvious, not wanting to be caught if either one of them suddenly wake up. No such happenings have occurred though, as both mother and daughter is sleeping soundly, Spencer occasionally breathing deep, smacking her lips together in an adorable fashion.

It's not before I try to make myself comfortable on my side of the car, settling in to steal a few minutes of sleep myself, that I feel Spencer's arm move. My shoulder never touching Spencer's, I still didn't manage to keep my thigh away from hers. They're touching lightly, and the hand previously residing on her thigh is moving in my direction. It's not slow, it's not trying to be smooth, as if Spencer's just pretending to be asleep. No, her hand moves like a sleepridden hand does, clumsily bumping into things, before it falls onto my own. My first reaction is to pull my hand away, but I'm not fast enough as the hand upon my own gently squeezes my own, keeping it in place.

I'm not sure if I like it or not, the hand resting upon mine, all I know is that the spark running through me, the feel of her skin against mine, is making it unable for me to fall asleep.

All I feel is her, but it triggers more emotions than what I'm ready for.


	12. To Raise Cain

**  
To Raise Cain**

It hasn't been easy, that's for sure.

The dread, anxiety, tremor coursing through me in the most inappropriate situations are building an even higher terror for bumping into the one causing it all.

When I first saw her, her expression told me all about her feelings toward me moving in with them. It made me uneasy, afraid of being rejected, unwelcome.

When I got welcomed into the family, she refused to take any part of it, no handshake, no approving nod, no words spoken in my direction.

When I was forced to encounter her, she ignored me, repelled by my very presence, unwilling to accept me as a family member as much as a human being in itself.

When I had to share a backseat with her due to a funeral, she barely showed any proof of her noticing my existence.

To her, I was non-existent, a ghost haunting the hallways, an illusion joining their dinner table, a mere figment of their imagination, Spencer being the only sane one refusing to partake in the others fertile fantasy.

I can't say it didn't hurt. Hell, I've proved time and time again how much she beat my already fragile soul up, how her coldness threw me into the walls, how her glares kicked me to the ground.

Her personality and behavior frightened the living shit out of me, I never thought I would ever experience something worse.

Damn, was I wrong.

The dread of her next glare, her next hurtful line had nothing on the tremor I felt in the week following their granny's funeral.

---

_  
The rock in my shoe is making it hard for me to walk properly, its sharp edges digging into the sensitive sole of my foot. God knows how it ended up in there, I can't remember ever walking on a rocky path. _

"You're really getting into it now, you're getting better..! Ever thought about fighting someone else for real?"

"You mean like a match?"

"Yeah, like against someone of your own physique, 'cause we all know  
I'm way out of your league," Glen answers, the cockiness easily traceable in his voice.

Smack

"Ow, hey, no need to ambush me, cheater!"

I giggle my way through the front door, while Glen rubs the spot on his forearm my fist suddenly decided to make contact with.. We didn't take the car to the gym this time, instead opting for a warm-up jog to the gym. On the way back, we raced each other, both desperately fighting for the honor of being the fast one. Needless to say, when a guy in his mid-thirties out-ran both of us without even participating in the sprint, we both admitted defeat, falling down on a patch of grass next to the road.

We'd spent twice as much time on our way home, play fighting and running away from each other, which left us both drenched in perspiration. This built up for a final battle between us, the battle of the shower.

Since we were already worn-out, it happened to be a game of rock-scissor-paper that held the fate of who would win the ultimate prize; shotgun for the shower.

When it happened to be Glen winning, I also knew I had lost at the battle for the warm water.

---

As Glen jumps up the stairs, I neatly lay my jogging shoes by the door, throwing the tiny rock occupying one of the shoes far down the driveway, out of sight, out of mind.

For some unknown reason, I feel a sadness rush through me at how easily it was for me to just throw it away, to not even look at it first, not taking a deeper look at what accompanied me for a brief period of time, however annoying I found it.

Before I get the chance to dwell further on the rejection I unfairly placed upon the little rock, I hear someone rustling in the kitchen, bare feet hitting the tiles, cupboards opening and slamming shut. My feet carry me towards the surprisingly scentless kitchen, knowing that Arthur would never let the kitchen ever smell like anything but tasteful aroma whenever he's in it.

I wrongly believe Paula is the one occupying the room I'm walking towards, shameful disappointment filling my mind, my stomach growling in agreement. The workout session having taken it's toll, my body craves something to satisfy the hunger in me and believing that Paula is the one in charge of dinner is making me queasy.

But I would never show it.

"Hey, Paula, is there anyth-..."

I stop mid-sentence in the moment my eyes travel from the floor, up the tan legs, over the luscious bum hidden in tiny-as-hell shorts, sliding across the barely covered back, slowly dragging my eyes over the defined shoulder blades, watching the golden locks gently nuzzling a slender neck.

She's reaching for something high up, cupboard wide open, one hand firmly grasping the handle, seeking for some balance where she's standing on the tip of her toes. I don't know if she heard my wrongful greeting or not, 'cause no form of acknowledge over my present is given. 'Or maybe she's just ignoring you'. Her devotion for the task at hand is giving me time to look at her, to take in her petite frame in a way I've never been able to before. I'm for once thankful for my apparently unnoticed presence, full well knowing the staring I'm currently engaging in will not be appreciated by the opposed person.

And there's a reason for the sudden extra attention I'm giving the girl standing only feet away from me. I've always noticed that she's above average looking, hell, the first thing I noticed about her was the utter beauty she radiated. One would think my meeting with the foul personality she possessed would make her features less prominent, her golden locks some rusty shade of gray, her firm body more slack and unappealing, but this was never the case.

It had crossed my mind before. This wasn't the first time I questioned my appreciation of her features, but it had never hit me so hard, never struck such a chord inside me, never made my stomach actually tingle, never pinched the spot between my legs with such force as it did in this exact moment.

I'm so transfixed in the view I'm currently ogling that I don't know if I'll survive if she ever decides to turn around. I know I should leave, run, silently shuffle out of the kitchen before she finally reaches what she's stretching for, but the view of Spencer clad in boy shorts and a bra is making it impossible. I'm stuck, frozen to the spot, unable to tear my eyes away from her.

She's in her bra and boy shorts.

She's half-naked, stretching in the kitchen, grunting ever so slightly in her attempt to find whatever she's looking for.

In a bra. And boy shorts. Short boy shorts.

It hasn't been long, no more than 30 seconds since I entered this room, but for a reason well known to everyone following me, time is no longer acting in universal laws. A lifetime of emotions and naughty, surprising feelings in my world is nothing but a mere second in the common people's time and age, the world Spencer is currently located in.

"There!"

Aaaand I'm ripped back into the land of the living, no longer camping in a world where dreams of sexy, forbidden smut fill every waking time and hour.

Aaaand I soon reappear in smut-land the moment Spencer turns around, eyes cast towards me, no emotion evident. Holding her stare is hard, uncomfortable, but totally necessary. Normally I would look anywhere but straight into those blue eyes, but I know for a fact that right now "anywhere but" would be somewhere way less appropriate and TONS more uncomfortable. Like, say, her toned stomach muscles or maybe her slender legs or maybe her caged chest threatening to break free, or-...

God, I so wanna look down, I so wanna look down, I so can't look down, where to look, where to look-...

"Did you want anything?"

The silver necklace hanging low on her chest is glistening, luring me, enchanting my weak resolution, seducing me to look down. I am defeated, my eyes are cast downward ever so briefly, warmth threatening to rose my cheeks, paleness winning over warmth, fright of looking into those blue eyes overpowering the feeble frame of my body, hands fumbling, bones shaking.

"Ash, a really, really cold shower is waiting for you upstairs! Hurry up, it won't stay that way for too long!"

If Glen just knew how necessary that cold shower is.

---

It wasn't the look in her eyes as she saw me clumsily checking her out, nor her question to my sudden appearance in the kitchen, that sent the strongest chill up my spine. I've seen those eyes emit hatred and disgust, ignorance and annoyance, but none of these emotions were present in her eyes. For once, her eyes had been open, seemingly curious and kind but still with an undertone of a smirk. Her question had been asked as one, not a sentence voiced to hang alone but one voiced with the anticipation of a reply.

It was the emotions surging inside my own mind, the reaction of wantonness caused by her half-naked frame that fueled my horror, that left me more scared than I've ever been.

While the fear previously was caused by someone else's mind and body, it now happened to be my own reactions and thoughts that stirred a riot inside me, that sent me hiding in fear.

------------

Melancholy has always been present in my life. The state of no emotion, no mood has been a common companion in days of nothing. In days of yore I willingly traveled the path to stillness, experiencing such a natural state to be some kind of privilege, something uneasy to obtain. Times have changed, and while I once searched in hope of finding that place of calmness, it's now a road traveled many a time, easy to stumble upon.

It changed gradually when I entered this house. It didn't reverse, those melancholy days were still easy to reach if provoked. I haven't gone back to old inadequacy, frustration over lost time to myself has not reappeared, things have just been altered; things have leveled, a balance has been built between always being in a state of nothing and always being in a state where nothing is unobtainable.

Most days I never wish those moments on myself. Moments I used to  
treasure – strive for – have  
now been exposed, laid bare to show they only served as disguised condemnation, worshiping the art of self-degradation, successfully holding my head under water not letting my soul and body breathe freely.

I blame Paula for unplugging the ever-falling gush of depression, I blame Arthur for sealing the open wound of helplessness, I blame Glen for replacing it with self-worth and appreciation.

And I blame Spencer for scratching holes in this new skin they've given me.

--

Today is one of those days. One of those odd few ones sneaking their way between the door and the doorsill at night, crawling their way along the skirting boards, hoisting themselves up onto the bed and threatening themselves into the unknowing, sleepridden pores of my body.

Today is one of those days where nothing is all that is present, where smiles are gone, where sunshine means nothing, where love doesn't exist.

They've all noticed, my presence nothing more than a sleepwalker's, eyes glazed over in simulated apathy, mouth estranged from words. I don't feel like talking to anyone, school was spent hiding from possible interactions, the way home was done by walking instead of catching a ride with Glen like I usually do.

He knows that I sometimes get in these moods. At first he insisted that I got out of the funk, tried to cheer me up, spent even more time around me than he would've otherwise. With time, he learned that it was better to just leave me alone, let me have a day of solitude.

I'm residing inside the closed confinements of my room, sunshine hitting me from outside the window where I'm located in the windowsill. I could've opened the window, let the sunshine touch me bare without the shelter of the window between it and me, but I haven't. Opening the window would mean I care, would mean that the sunshine has an effect on me, would mean that it's welcomed. It's not. Nothing is.

I'm so shut off from the world around me that I almost miss the person entering the garden outside. When I do see her, I let my gaze follow her as she walks aimlessly around, at last settling in the shadows of a tree. She's just sitting, there's no earplugs in her ear, no magazine adorning her lap, no second person holding up a conversation. If she looked up, she would see me clearly in the window, but it doesn't make me uncomfortable, it doesn't make me want to leave the spot I'm occupying. It rather gives me an odd relaxation, knowing that while we're sitting in solitude, we're not completely alone.

I'm not gonna lie and tell you my heart didn't beat just a tad bit harder when I saw her. I'm not gonna deny the fact that I'm intrigued by her presence in the garden, 'cause I am. I'm guilty of both things, and I am well aware of what it means. But right now I don't want to fret about labeling what I'm feeling, 'cause in this moment, it isn't of importance. I just want to watch her without my mind reeling of questions, without outer factors blurring the clear vision I have of her in this private moment between us.

She hasn't seen me, and I doubt she ever will. I would rather it be that way, letting me see a different side of her, a private one, without her shelter holding all her emotions inside.

Mimicking the same state of mind as I'm in, she looks so calm, so collected, so in touch with herself. There's no trace of her usual behavior where she's sprawled out in the grass, eyes closed with a worry line etched onto her forehead. I've never seen her look worried, she's never shown any sign of weakness before like she's doing in this moment.

I wonder what she's worrying about, myself getting infected by her concern. I wish I could make her share it with me, knowing full well that is unlikely to ever happen.

My eyes haven't once been averted from her, not even when I hear something rattle in the driveway, cuss words flowing in the distance not managing to break the solitude of this moment.

It is when a small, dark shadow draws nearer to the girl that my heart speeds up for real. The whiskers of the shadow brush lightly against her skin, effectively erasing the worry previously inhabiting her facial expressions. Her hand reaches up beside her head, touching the fur of the cat, lightly stroking it while the animal brushes itself against the girl's cheek. Her eyes are still closed, having never opened, the smile tugging on her lips one of genuineness, contentment. It makes me smile my first smile of the day, somehow breaking down the wall of indifference my melancholic mood had put up.

Suddenly I care more about her than I've ever done, and I can't help but envy the cat as Spencer leans her head into it, making the cat settle down and cuddle into her neck while she's still stroking it lightly.

They look so peaceful together, so perfect. Who would ever think that the person laying in the garden could ever behave like a spoiled brat just waiting to cut someone a new one. No one. Because they're not the same person, the one resting beneath the tree, small beads of sunlight hitting her in random places from escaping through the leaves of the oak, is the one shaped by innocence, by wonder, by childhood amazement, by goodness.

I never thought it really existed: This other side of her that she's finally showing although in the presence of only herself, is one I always hoped for but never imagined would be there, hiding under the personality of ignorance and animosity.

I shouldn't look at her like this. Not because I'm intruding on a private moment – although I am – but because it's only heightening the reactions I'm experiencing within myself when I think about her.

She's no longer just making my body tremble with lust.

She's also making my mind shiver of affection.

And it has to stop.


	13. Scylla and Charybdis

A/N: I have no idea how you guys are gonna take this chapter, but it was all intended to happen from the idea of this fic was made. I wanted to show a different side of it, one not too horrific, but still not great. You'll understand what I mean.

**Scylla and Charybdis**

Lunchtime, and I'm sitting at the same table as the jocks are. One would think that after months at this school I would've found my own clique, but no. I've got no one but myself to blame, but I still like to pretend it's Glen's fault. He forced me to sit with this group from the first day of school, and since then everyone has assumed that this is where I belong.

I don't.

I SO don't.

There were some people making conversation with me in my first week, but I was so shy and easily breakable that no one managed to get through to me. Voices were heard, sentences replied, but nothing was laid-back, nothing was real.

The table next to us consists of the god-awful cheerleaders, all trying to outshine the others with their loud laughter, their painted faces and their revealing clothes. I've had to endure many a conversation concerning these girls, it's the main theme among the guys I'm surrounded by.

People would kill for my spot.

Sitting here surrounded by the most popular guys in school, each and every one of them greeting me in the halls and sitting next to me in class, one would think that I'm ecstatic.

The thing is, I would rather sit somewhere else. I would rather accompany those geeks down in the corner instead of these brainless strap-ons that I'm currently 'engaging conversation' with.

All they ever talk about is girls and basketball. I've heard all there is to hear about Jessica's 'freaky nature' in bed, I've spent agonizing hours listening to how much they worship Madison's bum – half the team already having tapped it – and I've seen Glen's uncomfortable expression every time someone mentions his sister.

When I first heard them talk about Spencer I would look toward Glen, wondering why he didn't say anything, why he didn't defend her. No threats were thrown around telling them to stop talking about his sister that way, no scowl or bump were done to the offending person, no defense was ever made.

At first I sympathized with him. I always thought it couldn't be fun having to hear those things about his sister, getting to know who she had slept with, how they had done it, when they had gotten it on. He's had to endure these conversations since the first time I was seated in the group, and he probably has had to endure it way before I entered the group.

Even I got uncomfortable listening to them talk about a girl I was supposed to look at as my sister. I didn't wanna hear about how easy she was, I somehow felt like a traitor when I didn't defend her, and I could just imagine how it felt like for Glen.

Still, it didn't make me do anything. It didn't make me speak up, tell them to shut up and leave her alone. In the beginning it was shyness that held me back, that made me keep my mouth and my conscience at bay. As time flew, I got used to it, no longer wincing at the details thrown around the table. I let them talk about her because I didn't know what else to do, it's not like Spencer was innocent, she should know that her actions have consequences.

Today it's different.

Today I'm no longer listening to what they're saying. Today I'm no longer giving consent to their gossip about a certain girl. The wincing is back, the hurt growing inside me caused by the uncensored details of their nights with Spencer has escalated tenfold, and I don't think I can take it much longer. I am well aware that my sudden protectiveness over Spencer is for all the wrong reasons, I should have done this ages ago. I never should have let them talk about another human being in such a dehumanizing way, it shouldn't be my confused feelings towards her that is making me finally speak up in her defense.

But it is, and at least it's better to be late than never.

"Uhm, could you please not talk about Spencer? It's kinda uncomfortable."

I'm squirming in my seat, not being able to look any of them in the eyes when I utter these words of courage. To anyone else, they would seem pathetic, weak, there is no determination in my voice, no strength. But to me they represent an ability to speak up, to defend – something I never thought I had in me. The surprised expressions on everyone's face tells me that I wasn't the only one thinking that.

But what really shocks me is the look on Glen's face.

He should be proud. He should be happy that someone for once defended his sister, he should congratulate me on my courage to finally voice what he's been wanting to all along.

But for some reason, this isn't the case.

He's looking at me oddly, his face contorted in a frown, fingers absentmindedly fingering the loose bits of wood on the side of the  
table. There's no glint of pride in his eyes, no appreciation over the fact that someone finally defended his sister. If I was confident, sure of myself, not afraid of speaking my mind, I would've pulled him away, asked what was wrong, studied him closer to get a gist of why he's acting the way he is. But we all know I'm not. We all know that behind that one ounce of courage I previously demonstrated, I'm nothing but a coward.

"Don't like us talking about your sis that way, huh? Finally gotten a soft spot for her? I thought you hated her?"

Brendan's lightly bumping his elbow into my side. Yeah, _that_ Brendan, the one who shared a ride with me and Glen while simultaneously getting a 'free ride' from Spencer in the backseat. At least that's what would've happened hadn't we gotten to the party fast enough.

I should glare at him, hate him with a fiery passion, but when his eyes leave mine and focus on the girl next table, I can see it's not just  
physical for him either. It's not just lust brewing in his veins, his words aren't just shallow pieces of arrogance, I'm not the only one having a soft spot for the girl in focus.

And I bet we're not the only ones.

They all make her sound easy, a sure thing when in sexual need. What they never mention though, is that it never goes further. I've never heard a word of second dates, she's never once reciprocated their flirting in school after a fling at a party. Several of these guys adorning the splintered wooden table have tried to make it into something more. I've seen their unsuccessful attempts at initiating a relationship, one or two of them actually showing up at the Carlin house in their lovestruck state, trying to woo the girl into their arms.

All of them failing completely.

She's an enigma they're trying to disguise as a tart, solely based on their failure to reach inside her. She might be a sure thing physically, but seeing the lingering admiration in their eyes whenever she wanders the hallways or enters a party, they all know she's emotionally unreachable.

And they can't handle it.

That's why I've had to endure months of verbal lashing of a girl we're all actually fascinated by.

--

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi Henry."

"Uhm, yeah I am."

"Going out? Uh, I'm not sure-.."

"But I've got-..."

"But-..."

Sigh.

"When is it?"

"Okey, well then I'll just get a lift from Glen, since he's probably going too."

"Yeah, uhm, thanks for asking."

"Okey, bye."

I'm doomed. My plans of solitude behind the doors of my private haven are no longer vacant. The probable occurrence of Arthur knocking lightly on my bedroom door asking me to join them by the TV is no longer available. The shackles of expected attendance have been closed around my ankles, the blame for it being my apprehension of ever saying no.

Instead of those reserved hours inside a protected house, I'm no longer in control of the areas that are gonna surround me tonight.

I've been trying to keep myself out of the weekend-debauchery that is happening among teens all over the city. I'm not gonna deny the feeling of freedom alcohol gave me. When the bitter taste ceased to affect my sense of taste, it was quite a joyous night. I've never been so carefree and relaxed ever before, so in touch with emotions I didn't even know were present in me.

But this is exactly what I fear.

I fear the lack of control overtaking my usually analytical mind, thoughts running freely, filter no longer present between the voice within me and the voice outside.

She's been on my mind a lot.

So much that I am sure she'll invade my thoughts even on a night of drunken festivities with the jocks.

So much that I can never trust the voice within me to stay inside if I ever taste the alcoholic poison.

Therefore, I cannot drink tonight. I cannot touch the fluid that longs to run inside my veins, that calls out for us emotionally challenged people to come out of our shell, to stand naked before our friends and enemies, leaving out emotions bare.

--

"Ash, I got something for you"

"No Glen, I told you I'm not drinking tonight."

The words are tall, confident and reliable, it is how I say them that makes them so weak and powerless to Glen's continued convincing.

"Oh come on, loosen up a bit! You sure as hell need it..!"

He's no longer frowning or acting weird, the small glimpse of  
something unknown within him at the lunch table is no longer present, and my gratitude for it makes it harder for me to say no.

"You know, I stole it from mom's liquor cabinet just so you could get more comfortable with the guys and all. It's no fun if you're gonna sulk in a corner all night...!"

He's right. I _was_ planning on sulking in a corner, watching them do stupid stuff I only wish I was brave enough to join in on.

"Come oooon..."

He's trying to persuade me, and although he's doing a lousy job, I still take the bottle out of his bag, open the cap and take a big gulp of it. He's smirking, eyes amused at how easily he persuaded me, I know he wasn't expecting it. Even I wasn't expecting it, mind adamant at staying clear and out of danger. It happened to be my nerves who sold me out, betrayed my faltered resolve and stabbed me in the back.

I _could_ stop.

I only had a wee bit of the acrid taste, nothing to even touch the the blood inside my veins.

The problem is, do I really want to?

Deep down, in the land of spontaneity, would I really say no to this  
night of festivities if it weren't for my the menacing warnings pulsating through my brain?

I probably wouldn't.

And therefore, feeling a brewing hate inside of me at the prospect of stupid, unnecessary feelings taking over my entire life, I take another swig of the bottle.

--

My head hurts. I should be more drunk than I'm feeling, taking into account how much I've been devouring the last hour, but somehow, I feel even more aware of my own thoughts and body than when sober. I'm not feeling it like last time, it's different, more inhibited. There's no inane sentences spewing out of my mouth, there's no staggering steps being taken to the girl's room, nothing of what I experienced last time.

I am grateful, though still oddly disappointed. I'm not having half the fun I thought I would have, the guys haven't gotten the slightest funnier, jokes of dubious quality still boring me to death. Glen is as drunk as everyone else, or else he might have noticed the frown upon my face. Or else he might have asked me if something was wrong, ask me if I wanted to leave.  
He doesn't, as he is intoxicated to the full extent, arm laying casually behind me, resting on top of the bench.

It's a pretended casualty inhabiting his arm though. It's not as random as he's making it out to be, it's been resting there even in situations where both arms would've been preferred in use. It should irk my mind, penetrate my thoughts with suspicion of ulterior motives, but I'm not letting it happen. I am not letting Glen's questionable occurrences plant any wrongful ideas inside of me, making my life even more complicated.

"Ash, drink up! I'm buying you a new round!" is heard from beside me, Brendan lightly touching my thigh where he's sitting on my right, Glen still possessively inhabiting my left one. I stare down on the coarse hand not leaving my thigh, and I lightly cough before downing the last of my drink.

The bartender is eying me suspiciously, surely getting the fact that I'm nowhere near 21, still he doesn't ask for any ID from me when Brendan leaves the booth – simultaneously taking his hand off my thigh – to buy me more alcohol. I can't help but internally letting out a sigh of relief, the tension and uncomfortableness present earlier from the 'innocent' touches finally disappearing. Until it returns in the shape of Glen's fingers slowly caressing my neck.

I could just tell them to keep off, to not touch me. But it's not that easy. I've never been accustomed to speaking up, to defend myself. There's nothing being done wrong, they're not really protruding any limits. I'm not even sure what their touches mean, it could be nothing more than friendly affection, there's no vow of ulterior motives being made by these caressing hands. But it's not necessarily the actions being made that is making this so much worse than it should be. The trouble of the affection being shown is based upon who they are done by.

Glen is supposed to be the big brother I never had, the friend I can always count on, the one that will defend me no matter what happens. He's not supposed to posses me, smother me with his presence like he's doing this instant.

And Brendan... I don't even have a legitimate reason to loathe that he's touching me anywhere _at all _. The bile rising in my throat as his hand touched my thigh can't be explained in a rational fashion, because it isn't rooted in rationality. The reason for my apprehension towards him is so foolish and out of context that it almost shames me.  
He's touched her. He's been inside the girl that won't leave my mind, and I'm punishing him for it. I'm punishing him for an incident that he had no reason to know would affect me.

I know I'm being irrational, I know it's unfair toward both of them, I have placed them into roles they have never given consent to be in, they're not even aware.

It doesn't stop me from wanting to flee though. I excuse myself to the girl's room, there's no rashness to it, I'm not running into it, I'm merely just walking casually into the girl's room like I don't have a care in the world. My face on the other hand is distraught and tense, and as I reach the sink, my shoulders finally shoot up into the position they've been wanting to all night. Finally I can let my body express what my mind have been feeling all night.

As I walk back into the bar, hands stuffed into the pant pockets - sand making a random appearance between my fingertips – I take a chance at something I should have done hours ago.

"Hey guys, uhm, I think I'll just head home."

Glen shoots up from the booth and reaches for his jacket, but before he pulls it on, I stop him.

"Just stay Glen, I'm fine with taking a cab home tonight. None of us should really drive anyway."

I'm trying to sound strong and confident so that Glen won't feel obliged to get me home. His eyes search mine, but the alcohol has made its effect on him and he's not able to look inside me like he usually does. I don't let him reply as I shuffle out of the bar and start my long walk back home.

There's a taxi driving by me but I choose to ignore it. The fresh breeze of night hits me like a welcomed hug and I have no intention of getting home by wheels tonight. The atmosphere of night is being overshadowed by the lights coming from houses all around me.

I don't know if I'm scared of the dark. I can't remember a single instance where I've been surrounded by utter darkness, no flicker of light making cracks in the black wall I've heard so much about. Tonight is no different, the darkness only a meek shadow of it's real self and I can't help but feel companionship with it. I know I've got more personality than what I let shine through, I know I'm more than just a weak, broken girl frightened of all and nothing.

It angers me that I'm unable to break out into the person I know I could've been. If life hadn't decided to play with me like a sadistic experiment, then maybe I would've been outgoing. Maybe I would've been popular, out-spoken, _beautiful_. Maybe I would've been a cheerleader, maybe I would've had friends that would do anything for me.

Maybe I would've been like Spencer.

It should scare me, the thought of ever being anywhere near Spencer personality-wise. She's cold, unsympathetic and downright mean. Still, it's an alluring thought, living a life of ease like the one Spencer does.

I know I'm making assumptions. And I know I'm making wrongful assumptions, I'm well aware that Spencer is not her true self either. She's hiding behind the same wall as I am, just on the other side of it. While she's out and about, promiscuous and out-spoken, I'm the opposite. The shell I'm unable to break free from is the same shell Spencer is unable to crack into.

I hide these realizations though, as I choose to not acknowledge the truth they speak. I don't want to look at her as someone bound by the same ties as I am, 'cause right now I want to be like her. I want to take a look at the other side, the one I've been too scared to trudge into.

Alcohol is definitely a huge factor for the decision I'm currently making. The anger and determination would've never escalated to the state it is in right now if it hadn't been for the poison in my veins. But it's slowly wavering, I know I need a refill, I need more to quench the thirst my courage craves.

The door looks heavy and I don't know if I'll even be able to open it up, let alone have what it takes to actually walk in. It's petrifying, the thought of walking into admittance. To be thinking it is hard enough, but to admit it – in front of an actual crowd – is making it unable to go back. They won't know what they're witnessing, they won't hear the scream of confession that will bounce of the walls. All they will see is my face, my presence in a room where others have stood before me, soaked in the same terror I'm shortly stepping into voluntarily.

There's a group of older women, not old per se – probably just touching the legal age of the bar – hanging around outside and as they're about to walk in, I know this is my shot to do what I know I have to.

I mingle beside them, frightened at the prospect of being stopped for ID but even more frightened at having to look someone in the eye. The dread of being scolded should not be present in me when I know we're all sharing the same reason to be here, but it's still present. Heart beating rapidly, I get in without any encounters, and as I trudge inside to the bar my heart just keeps on beating uncontrollably.

I don't know why I'm afraid anyone will recognize me, any person within these walls that could tell on me would thereby admit to sharing the same secret as I have. It doesn't stop me from shaking though, and I know I need a refill of courage as fast as possible.

The drink I'm getting from the butch bartender is sharp, strong – effectively calming me. It gives me the bravery to turn around, to take in the surroundings engulfing me.

There's people mingled all over the place, some dancing to old house-tunes, everyone female. I knew I stepped into a gay bar, I just didn't know it was a lesbian one – although I have no idea why the thought of guys also being here would be comforting.

I don't know where to stand so I remain at the lined bar, shoulder to shoulder with a wall. I'm not comfortable, so far from it that I curse myself for ever stepping inside. I want to blame Spencer, she's the one that sent me here, sent me head right into the realization that boys just aren't my thing. I can't blame her. She's not at fault, she never intended to make me different, to make it even harder for me. A thank you is more accurate, as she probably made me admit it earlier than I would've otherwise.

But she _is_ the only reason why I'm in this gay bar tonight. She _is_ the only one I can't stop thinking about, and therefore the person I'm so desperately trying to throw out of my mind. I don't know why I thought this place would make it better, because if it should, it's failing miserably. I've never felt more out of place, more pathetic and weak that I'm feeling right now, and if it wasn't for the hand suddenly appearing on my shoulder, I would've ran out of here like lighting.

But I'm _not_ running, and there _is_ a hand touching my shoulder.

"Hey girl, are you new in the game?"

The cockiness is of a guy's caliber, but the sweet voice accompanying it is nothing like a man's. I turn my head in the direction of the hand, only to look straight into the eyes of one brown eyed hottie. I can't help but exhale, thankful that I don't have to compare someone's blue eyes to Spencer's.

"...Yeah," is all I manage to stutter out, nervousness spreading through my body, heating it up.

"Well then, maybe I can loosen you up a bit?"

Words sultry, she still holds her hand on my shoulder, lightly tracing  
patterns with the tip of her fingers. I giggle lightly, like a schoolgirl over some lame joke her crush just said. I cringe inwardly, finally feeling the effects of my non-existent experience in dating. It's nothing like when Brendan touched my thigh earlier on, nothing like the roughness of Glen's palm upon my neck. Her touch, however cocksure and arrogant, is sweeter, better. I'm fidgeting, unable to look her in the eyes, nerves taking over me.

"Hey Lisa! Send me a couple of drinks over here!" she shouts over the music, and I'm thankful that her fingers stall on my shoulder, the sensations frightening. However, the realization that she's on first name with the bartender nags at me, makes me feel like I'm a conquest, one of her 'weekly's. I probably am, with the way she's flirting unabashedly, lightly touching me whenever she can, sweet talking me like only a pro can do. I briefly wonder if this is how Spencer woes her guys, and if this is how she'd pick up a girl if she would ever do that. I shake the thought off of me just as fast as it sneaked its way inside me. I'm having a hot brunette clearly hitting on me, still my thoughts return to a blond, blue eyed beauty I am not allowed to think about. I refuse to let her ruin what could happen tonight, and instead of being my usual self, I return the stranger's affections, I down all the drinks being shoved my way, I pretend I'm interested.

Not to say that I'm not. She really does look great, long, straight brown hair, dressed to kill in a short black dress that I never expected anyone to wear inside this bar.

But I know that what I'm doing isn't right. Not because I'm in a gay bar. Not because I'm returning a girl's affections. Not because I've gone somewhere without permission.

It's because I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. I'm not here  
because I want to. I'm not here because I wanna meet someone. I'm here because I wanna meet _anyone_. Anyone that can take my mind off of a girl I have no reason to lust after, a girl I should loathe with a fiery passion.

I'm not listening to the words flowing sexily out of the hottie's mouth, all I'm trying to focus on is her fingers lightly tickling the skin on my arm, the close proximity of her body, the reactions that should shoot inside me from the actions being done to me. I'm fighting for it, struggling to feel anything towards this stranger. The drinks being downed in a rapid fashion is undoubtedly helping me, I'm no longer comparing her to the one-who-shall-not-be-named, her touches no longer feeling wrong and uncomfortable. It's not more than one hour into her seduction that she goes for it, takes the step she's openly shown she's wanted to take since she first laid eyes on me.

I should be happy as a kite, reveling in the fact that his hottie wants me, craves me. I should be completely under her spell in the moment her lips touches mine, mind and body needing her touch. But I'm not. They're softer than a guy's lips, not chapped and brutal, there's no assault of tongue threating its way inside my mouth like I'm used to from guys.

It's nice, it's welcomed. But it's not mind-blowing or out of this world. She knows what she's doing, tongue lightly tracing my bottom lip, waiting for permission to take it further. I give it to her, I deepen it, but it doesn't make me _feel_ anything. There's no tension flowing its way into my bloodstream, my heart doesn't speed up or skip a beat. Still it doesn't stop me from letting her grope me, where we're seated in a corner of the bar, out of immediate view from others. The fact that we're somehow hidden behind the dancefloor makes me more bold, more indulgent.

Touches reaching under my top, hand grasping my thigh, I'm excited, the fear somehow repressed under the coat of alcohol and I'm no longer in control of what I'm doing. I return her affections, I kiss mer more fiercely than I need to, letting her lower me down in the booth, it all getting more heated than it should in a public place. I'm not the only one sharing this thought, as she stands up and drag me with her into the bathroom not far from us. I'm being slammed into a stall, an animalistic need appearing within the girl melded into me. Her thigh presses its way between my legs, hitting the spot where my thighs meet. I groan, not because of pleasure but of how hard the thigh is being pressed into me. She's no longer being gentle, a sense of selfishness presenting itself in her touches. Her kisses lower, my neck being assaulted by the girl obviously aroused by our actions. Her hands reach under my top, bra roughly being shoved upwards, there's no question being asked if I want this to happen. I'm merely an object of her need, no longer the person she sweet talked earlier. I can't help but think I wasn't the only one who didn't listen to the words being said, mind centered on the not-so-subtle touches happening within the conversation, never on the conversation in itself.

I gasp as her mouth assaults my nipple, hands tugging desperately  
on the belt of my jeans. I freeze, the previously drugged fear reappearing with added force. My hands grasp hers, stopping the belt from being loosened. Her eyes wander up my body and reaches my eyes, smirk inhabiting her lips, lust inhabiting her eyes.

"Don't worry, you'll like it", is all that is uttered from her lips before they're back at the task of pleasuring my upper body. My hands still, I'm no longer daring to say no. I put myself into this situation, now I have to learn the consequences of leading someone on.

It's not that it's so goddamn painful to have this girl attached to my sensitive spots, it's the fact that it doesn't feel right, the overwhelming feeling of betrayal toward myself caused my the actions I'm participating in. I'm no longer returning her touches, her lustful gazes but she doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in the task at hand. The zipper of my jeans is being dragged agonizingly slow down and some of the lust I previously forced myself to feel reappears. My stomach clenches, muscles tightening in unusual places.

Hands frantically tugging at my jeans, lowering them down to my knees, she doesn't bother doing the same to my underwear as she pushes them to the side, not letting me stop her before she's touching me in the most intimate way. There's no time for self-consciousness or insecurity to fill me before the stranger does it; fills me. It's rough, somehow painful because of her dry fingers pressuring their way inside me. I try to straighten my legs so that she won't be as fully into me as she is, but it's all in vain. The sounds of pain coming from me are mistakenly taken as sounds of pleasure, or maybe she just doesn't care. Maybe she gets off on the thought of hurting someone to pleasure. But it's not happening to me. Even when her thumb brushes against the bundle of nerves, she still doesn't ignite any feelings of arousal within me. There's no wetness present, still it doesn't clue her in on her inability to make me feel good.

I haven't asked her to stop. There's no words or evident actions being done to show her just how _not good_ she's making me feel. My eyes are shut fiercely, tears appearing in the corners of my eyes, but she doesn't notice. She doesn't notice because her head is slowly lowering down across my stomach, licking a path of wetness that I just barely notice, the uncomfortableness of her fingers overtaking all my senses.

Then it all stops. This is my time to speak up, to tell her to stop, to not hurt me anymore. But I'm frozen in the position of openness, unable to retract my body from the unwilling situation it's present in. Instead, my eyes decides to water for real, no longer being able to hold it in.

Then it starts again, underwear being tantalizingly pulled down to my knees and before I grasp the fact that my lower body is completely naked, something touches me. Its texture and softness is different from the harsh fingers previously residing in the same spot, and I'm unable to stop my eyes from popping open. An "Oh God" is being uttered from my lips, and as the words "It's Kelly" reverberates through the room, the action beneath my waist briefly stops before it returns with more determination than before.

It's no longer as painful as before, the tongue stroking my clitoris sending shocks within me. I'm no longer desperately pressing into the wall, away from the touch that previously burned me. She continues her ministrations, my body reacting in ways I don't want it to. This isn't right, this is as wrong as it ever could be, but her sudden soft movements is tensing my body in all the _right_ ways, however much I don't want it to happen. I don't want her to make me come, not with her insensitive ways earlier. Still, it doesn't stop my body from shuddering mere minutes later, her hands grasping my hips, holding me up.

She stands up kissing me hotly, forcing her tongue inside my mouth. I don't want it in there, I don't wanna taste myself on her, the reminder of her actions not at all welcome. I feel dirty, pathetic, more weak and powerless than ever before. She doesn't notice the tears adorning my cheeks as she leans in to my ear before whispering "it's your turn" ever so huskily.

I smack my head the one inch into the wall, eyes open, not believing the words uttered from this girl. I want to push her away, smack her in the face, scream a cry of pain but all I'm able to do is hurriedly sneak away from her, open the stalldoor before clutching to the sink a few feet into the room. My hands pull my pants and underwear up in despair, shame and embarrassment seeping into every pore of my body. I'm so fast out of the bathroom that I don't have time to notice if someone saw me, all I can think about is getting out of here, out of this nightmare of huge proportions that I'm currently situated in.

When I reach around the block, out of sight from the entrance to the  
bar, I stop – lungs overdosing on air. Knees harshly hitting the ground beneath them, gravel effectively making bruises into my sensitive skin, I finally let the noise of despair release from me. I cry, actual _sobbing_, for a whole ten minutes before I damn myself for ever letting myself get in a situation like this. I shouldn't feel sorry for myself, this was my own creation, the stranger only a participant in what happened, not the assaulter like I so desperately want to think of her as. My feet are heavy where they trudge their way home, bile rising in my throat as I buckle the belt I didn't have time to do in my frantic state earlier.

--

I've been sitting out here for ages. Fifteen, twenty, maybe fifty minutes have been spent on this porch, not daring to step into the house where no one knows what's happened. I'm afraid they'll notice, I'm petrified of their disappointed looks as they'll know my filthy ways. And most of all, I'm not ready to face myself in a mirror, to see the marks of teeth probably etched into my neck. My hand is clasped upon them, wanting to hide them from the darkness, ashamed of having let down my only companion.

I've never felt more alone, never felt the effects of it as severe as I'm doing right now. If this is what everyone's doing, if this is what everyone so desperately craves to feel, then I don't want to be like them. Then I'm no longer willing to participate in the search for acceptance and popularity. If this is what Spencer willingly gets herself into, then I no longer wish to see the other side. Then I no longer want to see the world from her eyes. Because for the first time, I understand the animosity that fills her, and I do not wish that to happen to myself.

Head hanging low I can only hear the person appearing at the gate. I rush up into a defensive position, eyes shining of terror, arms clutching my body, protecting me. The one person I would the _least_ want to see me out here, like this, is standing feet away from me, looking me square in the eyes. I'm aware of the red marks of salt cascading down my cheeks, the puffiness of my nose as I sniffle lightly, and I know I'm not the only one. She sees them, traces them with her eyes before they wander back to my eyes. Her arms come momentarily out from her body before she retracts them, presses them into her sides. The sight of her presence so close to me, both physically and mentally, is so overwhelming that I can't help but shake in defeat, breath staggering out of my lungs, eyes closing in their vain attempt to stop the tears from flooding.

It doesn't dampen my senses though, as I feel her approach me, to walk past me and in the door I'm sure. That is why I stop breathing when she lingers next to me, her own breath different than normal. I feel a faint hand not actually touching me, just lingering next to my arm. I want her to leave, I don't want her touch to mingle with the touch of the stranger in the bar. I'm not ready to feel her touch, to finally feel a closeness to the one who's to blame for why I went through with what led to the most nerve-wracking night of my life.

I can't let her touch-... and her arms are suddenly upon me, around me, inside me. Not in the physical way from before, but in the most intimate way I could ever experience. The way she presses her body softly – non-sexually – into mine, arms around my waist and upwards to my neck, head hooking itself upon my shoulder, I can't help but shake more than ever before. She holds me up when my knees wants to falter, she strokes my back soothingly, murmuring "it's okey" into my ear.

It's nothing like earlier.

There's no harshness, no need in her actions. She's merely trying to comfort me, and while she succeeds, she also fails to calm me. I'm more alert than before, tears have stopped pouring out from my hurting soul. Despair replaced with confusion, body suddenly jolting awake again, I'm scared, scared that when I finally saw the other side and decided to never visit it again, I'm now re-intrigued. 'Cause there's evidently another side of her that I'm nowhere near understanding, one completely out of my grasp.

One she's unconsciously inviting me into.


	14. The Devil to Pay

**The devil to pay**

"Damn, these pancakes are GOOD!"

"Glen! Watch your language!"

A scowl is being thrown in Paula's direction, just as she turns around and looks at me.

"Ashley, you're not eating too much, are you feeling sick?"

"Uhm, no I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look a little pale, you're not getting a cold, are you?"

If there was something I could do to make Paula stop asking me all these questions, I would do it in a heartbeat. Anything would be better than sitting here at this table, just hours after what happened last night. I'm not even sure I've sobered up, but the hammer inside my head is making it obvious that the alcohol is fading.

I don't think there could be more reasons for why I'm not eating right now.

Did I tell you about the headache? Well, it's not the only sign from the night before.

I'm also nauseous, the bile rising in my throat being desperately kept down. Just one bite of Arthur's famous pancakes wouldn't just make me run for the bathroom, the taste of them would also be tainted forever. Therefore, I do not dare to touch them, only poking at the food on my plate every now and then.

She's sitting here too. We're all seated at the breakfast table, Glen is literally throwing the food into his mouth, effectively gaining 10 pounds by the minute. Arthur is smiling of pride over his successful breakfast while Paula is looking at me with worry in her eyes. The line on her forehead – the one she shares with her daughter – is prominent, her words ones of care. But it is Spencer that has my full attention although she's completely unaware of it.

She's eating like normal, only poking at the bare pancake on her plate. Her actions mirror mine, only difference is that they're used to it. They're used to Spencer's reluctance to eat too much of the unhealthy food. Me on the other hand, usually devour the food like my life depends on it, like I'm never gonna taste the wonderful aroma ever again.

This is why those worried eyes of Paula has landed on me and refuses to leave. I try my best at not meeting them, afraid my eyes are still red and blotchy from all the crying that happened last night. The long-necked sweater I'm wearing only increasing the looks being sent my way.

"You're barely eating anything, you don't have a fever, do you?"

And as the sentence is being voiced out, she reaches across the table to touch my forehead. The action is unwelcomed, head being drawn back from those fingertips only grazing my forehead. I don't want her to touch me, any touch is not welcomed in this instance, in this shame I'm drowning in.

She stares at me surprised, having never received such a rejection to her touch from me before. Sure, I've been reluctant in hugs, hands never leaving my sides as she's embraced me lovingly. But I've never actually refused her touch, her care. I feel all eyes on me, except the eyes I so wish would look upon me.

Arthur has started to mirror Paula's concern, Glen only smiling mischievously – thinking he knows the reason I'm acting the way I am. I'm not paying attention to any of them, knowing none of them has a clue as to what I'm feeling, and why.

Spencer on the other hand, is perfectly aware.

She knows more than any of the others combined, still she's ignoring what's happening at the table. She's not looking up at anyone, only taking wee bits of the pancake into her mouth, chewing slowly but surely. It's like she's oblivious to everyone but herself, her apathetic expression one I've seen many times before. She's no longer open, no longer giving me glimpses into a world unknown.

--

_  
Those hands are drawing patterns on my back, slowly soothing my shaking body, calming my soul. I'm so focused on her touch, on her body pressed into mine that I can't even remember why she's soothing me anymore. I'm sure it will come back to me when she releases her hold on me, but in this moment, all I want is her comfort, her kindness. _

I'm not even sure if it's kindness.

How can I know what goes on inside her mind, what if this is all part of one devious plan she's lined up for me?

I can't be. I can never know her for sure, never get inside that mind of hers. But somehow, I'm choosing to ignore these warnings going off inside my head, instead opting to hold on to whatever hope I have of this being real for her too. That this might mean something to this ethereal girl standing before me also.

It hasn't been long, shorter than what I hoped for, but it's expected. I've been excepting it from the minute her arms found their way around me and when it happens, I'm not surprised. When those arms I never imagined would ever touch me stop doing exactly that, I'm disappointed, but not startled.

She's not looking me in the eyes, instead opting to throw her gaze to the ground, to the wooden body that lays beneath us. I wish I had words, I wish I could convey something truthful and important to make her look at me again, make her open up the door to her sacred world even more. Instead, she opts to close it, silently pushing it shut but I can still hear it squeaking, I can still see the open lid slowly closing off.

Her body is drifting further away from me, I don't notice any footsteps being taken as I'm merely observing her retreating form in an unphysical way. It's not before her back hits the entrance to this house that I know this is it, that this is all she's letting me see.

This is the end of tonight, of the tragedy that ended as a mystery.

--- 

The memory of last night hits me like drops of water cascading down a naked  
body of mine. I can feel it anywhere, everywhere. Cold drops of harsh memories flash behind my eyelids, bits and pieces of this night in question pours into me with repeated force. I'm no longer nauseous from the poison pouring out, the nausea replaced and duplicated by the memories pouring in. I cringe openly, not being able to hold the expression of disgust at bay.

"What is it, Ash? You can tell us if you're sick, you don't have to be afraid of telling us, you know."

I'm barely hearing the words as my head starts spinning, faster and faster as my fingertips is the only thing left hanging onto my sanity. Paula is waiting for a reply but I'm not capable of giving one, one finger after another slipping from its hold, slowly but surely leading me into the deep pit of despair. My breathing escalates, and as I'm sure I'm going to hyperventilate or vomit all over this breakfast table, something happens. And I'm not sure how to read it.

"God, will you just leave her alone, Paula?!"

With all the times Glen has saved me, stood up for me, defended me, it would've been expected of him to be the one to do it this time also. But it isn't, his expression a shocked one as he looks to my right.

Her features are hard, edgy as she stares Paula down, daring her to bug me again. I'm no longer breathing heavy, all breath having been knocked out of me by the words uttered from the girl to my right. Mere seconds is all it takes before she's back at poking her pancakes, no longer any trace of her previous defense in her body language. Her features having reinhabited the expression of ignorance, I'm no longer so sure it's a real feeling she's projecting out to us. If it really is ignorance that fills her body in this moment, or if it's something else, something unknown. 'Cause if it really was ignorance, would she then have defended me, would she then have listened in on the conversation taking place, noticed my weakening frame?

The table quiets down and no one's looking at anyone anymore. I'm amazed at the power of Spencer's words, everyone bowing at her command. I, on the other hand, am bowing in gratefulness, not in shock and terror like the others.

As my heart begs my eyes to glance her a look of gratitude, my coward of a head prevents me. All I manage to do is gaze the outline of her face from my peripheral view, noticing her eyebrows lightly knitted together. Minor inches are separating us, her elbow close to mine on the table.

I wish I was brave enough to touch it – to squeeze it lightly in a display of thankfulness – but we all know what I am. We all know that I am the coward. The joke of a human being.

I am reminded of a state of mind where I tried to transgress the lines of my courage. Where I disregarded the alert rooted deep within me, the one telling me to stop, that it wasn't right, it wasn't _me_.

A state of mind which overtook me not even 24 hours ago, one that sent me in the state of misery I'm currently residing in.

But there's a difference.

The actions taking place last night weren't ones of free will. They were bound by expectations, by wanting to flee from the ache in my heart. I never wanted them for the _want in itself_. Not like the want that urges me to approach the enigmatic girl to my right.

I know I shouldn't, I know this action I'm soon to be engaging in will not do me any good. Still, I can't help but act on the desire to show her my appreciation. Hand shaking on my thigh – acutely aware of its mission – finally elevates from my body and gravitates toward her.

I wish it was suave – without the trembling clumsiness – but I knew beforehand that that would just be wishful thinking. When my hand does graze hers, it accidentally strokes across her thigh where her hand resides. The trembling increases, I'm unable to look in her direction, afraid to see rejection in her eyes just as much as I fear the rejection in her body language.

And that's what she gives me.

Rejection.

She's not even letting me give her the action I wanted to – to gently squeeze her  
hand in a gesture of thankfulness – before she pushes my hand away from her in a harsh manner. If I had been given the time to think it over, to read her reaction in a quiet manner, I might've reacted differently. I might've reacted _at all_. 'Cause right in this moment, I'm unable to do so as she screeches her chair backwards and stomps out of the room – much like she did during my first dinner in this home.

I'm speechless, afraid any of the others adorning this table saw my role in Spencer's leaving. But it's nothing to the fear that fills me for Spencer herself.

I can't help the urge to just go, to just run away from this table and this situation. And most of all – Spencer. But I'm not. I'm not running, not causing a scene, not doing anything. I'm merely staring off into the hallway that Spencer only seconds ago whiffed past in infuriated hurry.

Again, my attempt at doing something good has been thrown right back into my face.

And I'm not doing it again.


	15. Can Of Worms

**Can Of Worms**

I'm back at hiding. I'm back at avoiding the girl who's settled down inside my mind and refuses to leave. It might have not been that unpleasant if the version of her inside my head didn't constantly tell me she doesn't like me, that I don't have a chance in hell. That I'm merely a bug, something annoying that she barely endures the presence of. This constant reminder of my unrequited affection is tearing at my insides, is weighing me down.

All the confusing actions, the contradicting reactions should not make me crave her, should not make me want her even more. But it does, the evil that seems to lie within her luring me in with its call of seduction, its torment on my senses.

I'm hurting. I'm aching for her, aching because of her. Maybe if she never showed me those twinkles of a good side inside her, then maybe it never would have happened. Maybe I would've still been totally oblivious to her beauty, maybe I would've still been happy and not constantly wondering where she is, what she's doing, who she's doing it with.

It's like a never-ending punishment, whenever I seem to shake the thought of her from my mind, something happens, something is seen, something to send me rocket-fast right back into this sea of tar that is biting at me. This sea of things that remind me of her.

It is especially those moments where she shows that sharp, selfish side of her that kicks me so much harder than anything else. How can I pine, crave, long for someone with such a harsh and unsympathetic side of themselves? I wish I could blame some childhood memory, some complex forged by my more or less harsh past, but that's to put the blame on something but myself. That would be to give credit to my past, to make me weaker than what I've encountered in this life. And I know I'm not.

I know I'm stronger than the vicious forces of life. I know I'm stronger than to be subdued by what surrounds me more than to what lies within me.

All the punishment sent my way for those actions who were created within me instead of those outside of me will not bring me down, will not kill me. I'm in its chokehold, but I'm not letting it steal my breath.

Sure, I've had weak moments. Moments where I promised to not only give my first born but also myself just for the sake of not feeling this hurt inside me anymore.

But the promises have all been broken, I've still not thrown myself away, I still haven't killed the spirit within me.

And I don't think I ever will.

However much morals and expectations tell me to not like this person of foulness, I can't help but feel within me that this isn't who she is. That this person she's projecting to us on the outside is not the same she's living with inside of her.

--

I thought I had given up. I _wish_ I had given up by now, that I could believe  
those deceiving voices inhabiting my head telling me that she _is_ what she projects. But I can't shake off the feeling of being lied to, that I'm gonna miss out on something unmissable if I let these voices win me over.

It doesn't help that I'm watching this girl in question huff and groan in exertion as she's dragging her cheerleading bag after her into the driveway before plopping down on the porch in over-dramatized weariness. It's fun to watch, cause there's evidently no one watching her but me, and she still hasn't spotted me. It is when she lifts her head up and leans her body backwards on her elbows that she takes a glance in my direction, where I'm swinging back and forth lightly on the swing in the garden. When she spots me, I can't help but look down, avoid her gaze.

But when I look up at her again, she's the one to let her gaze down.

And I'm intrigued.

I thought I was the only one who got nervous, I thought I was the only one who blushed in shame at the lingering gazes being thrown around. But then again, I know I'm making assumptions, I know it's all wishful thinking, it's all imagined. The look she threw my way was nothing but a curious one, a shallow, 'who's on the swing' kinda way without any deep meaning or reason. I'm merely imagining that she could ever look at me for a tad longer than what is normal, that she could also get nervous and embarrassed when our eyes meet.

And this is the reason why I leave this situation, this faraway interaction with a girl that is anything but healthy for me.

--

It wasn't easy to pull this off. To leave the house without being spotted, without any question being asked why I was going to the gym without Glen by my side.

Usually, I would've thrown hints around the house that I wanted to go to the gym. Maybe lingered a bit in Glen's doorway, maybe casually fingered his boxing equipment in the corner of his room. Since I still haven't gotten over the whole 'afraid to ask someone for something' syndrome, I've become a master at giving hints, small actions for people to pick up on and act on. I sometimes waited till Glen would walk past me before tying my jogging shoes, knowing that he would probably join in with me, which would later lead to him asking if I wanted to go to the gym with him. In the beginning, these actions were nerve-wrecking, the thought of my hints being overlooked, ignored. Then they became a pattern, something that would become a special gesture between the two of us, the silent understanding that bound us together.

This last week though, I haven't been participating in these actions that I once treasured.

I know he's noticed, he's been more quiet, more reserved than he used to be. He's not as happy-go-lucky anymore, his inclusion of me having slowly wavered. I know it's not his fault, I know he doesn't want to exclude me from anything, he's just doing what he does best; read me. He knows when he's not welcomed, and lately, I've been projecting a weird vibe whenever he's been around and he's been picking up on it.

We still eat lunch together by the jocks table, he still banters with me in the car on our way to school, he still puts in my favorite TV game when I choose to join him. The most prominent difference though, is that he's not as touchy anymore. He doesn't hug me or lean on me like he often did, his affections have stopped occurring in situations where they were usually present.

I still haven't blown off our kick boxing workouts though, so when I today chose to not include him on one, I had to be stealth, to not make anyone suspicious. Thankfully, I didn't encounter anyone on my way out the door, and when I'm around the first block towards the gym, I finally release the shaky breath that's been residing in me since I left my room.

When I finally enter the gym, I'm filled with a mix of emotions, one being relief at finally getting the chance to be here by myself, and the second being an agonizing fear of Glen finding out I'm here without him. Guilt washes over me, but I instantly choose to dig it down, to burn the air that is filled with it. I'm finally here, I'm finally on my own so I'm not gonna ruin it all by unwelcomed thoughts.

--

He's been looking at me with a smile in his eyes, his expression one of softness, of charm. It's not the first time I've seen him around here, he's a regular just like me and Glen. He's never approached us before though, so I'm surprised when he knocks himself down on the bench I'm readjusting my gloves on.

"Hey girl, you do know you're not going to be able to tighten your left glove once you're finished with your right, right?"

His smile is playful, the cockiness one I've seen present in Glen on several occasions. I choose to just give him a slight smile before I continue the task at hand.

"You know you can just ask me to tighten it for you, you know, there's no need to act like you're _not_ struggling."

His laughter finally releases itself, only increasing when he sees the annoyed and concentrated look on my face. I'm totally failing at exactly what he told me I would fail at, and I'm not too keen on letting him be right about me.

"Okey, then I'll just let you do it on your own..!"

His smile is still present on that smug face of his, arms stretching on the back of the bench. I will not give him the satisfaction of being right, I will not-...

"Okey, _guy_, will you please help me with it?"

It surprises me how much venom that fills my voice, never one to show any harsh emotion to anyone. His face doesn't show any surprise though, as he probably expected such a response to his teasing.

"It's Aiden, and who is this feisty little girl?"

That whole sentence shouts non-romantical motives behind his approach, and the tense feeling he invoked in me disappears. Not only is it a sentence with the word 'little girl' in it – a word I hope no one calls their love interest – but it's also pronounced with such teasing qualities that it could just not be a sentence meant to woo anyone.

"Ashley", is all I say before the glove is properly attached to my left hand after Aiden's lame attempt at helping me. It ended up with me giving it a last try and managing it without his help. It didn't seem to unphase him though, as he walks over to his side of the gym in a proud way without saying anything more.

I go back to the punching bag, feeling oddly intrigued by the guy several feet away from me. It's nothing like the intrigue that fills me whenever I look at Spencer, the tremor that runs through my veins whenever the mere thought of her takes me over. It's more a curious intrigue, completely devoid of affection and fascination. It's the fact that he made me act like I wanted to. I never thought I would actually speak with venom even though I sure would've thought it. And it's the uncertainness of it being him or just the setting that made me act out the annoyance I felt.

Therefore, I'm on a mission when I let my eyes wander into his corner every now and then, never seeing him meet my eyes even once. My regular approach will not be enough this time – shy glances and pathetic hints will not make him approach me again, will not make him do everything I want him to. He's challenging me, daring me to do something I do my best to avoid. He's like the complete opposite of Glen, and in this moment in time, I couldn't be more thankful.

Glen is nice. He's supportive, helpful, always there at my command. His pace is similar to my own, he never pushes me, never challenges me. I don't need to force something out of me when I'm around him, there's no trace of dare present in his questions, he's understanding, he's safe.

He's exactly what I should never have.

I'm not blaming him for anything. He's not at fault for my weakened resolve, his understanding nature has helped me feel safe, feel comfortable.

But it hasn't helped me _grow_.

His kind nature has made me more at ease than I've ever been before, and I'm forever thankful for that. It is the fact that he makes me feel stiff, unmoving mentally that is the problem. The safe haven he provides doesn't make me thrive, doesn't make me change into a more confident person.

And that's exactly what Aiden's challenging me to become.

The eleventh time my eyes glance in his direction, he finally meets my gaze, a  
wee smirk present on a smug face. I could've blinked and missed it, but I didn't, I saw his awareness of my attempts in the way his lips quirked slightly upwards, the stake being raised higher.

And I finally act.

--

I _should've_ used the shower at the gym, I _should've_ been changed and unsuspecting when I got home to the Carlin's, but I somehow forgot it. I forgot to be careful, to think ahead of time. I wanna blame Aiden for dragging me with him on a jog home, but I can't. 'Cause he wasn't the one to ask.

_"You're good." _

"I know."

"How long have you done this?"

"For years."

"Why?"

"'Cause I like it."

"You should."

"I know."

Silence.

"We should, uhm, maybe train together sometime. Since we're both here regularly."

"Glen's not enough for you?"

Silence.

"We should."

Breath finally releasing from within me.

"Anyway, I need to run, late for work."

"Where do you live?"

"High Street."

"Can I tag along?"

"Ofcourse." 

--

The way back in without getting caught wasn't easy. Nor successful. Breath  
hitching louder and faster than normal – feet hitting every squeak present in this house – I should've expected to be seen, to be caught. Still, it surprised me when Glen's frame appeared in the living room doorway, his eyes filled with shock, disappointment, anguish. No words could ever explain to him why I left without him, why I excluded him from something we always used to share. So I broke the stare between us, cast my gaze to the stairs before trudging shamefully up the remainder of them.

The process of undressing is filled with these memories, of what this day has had in store for me. There's a sad mixture of pride and shame filling this bathroom I'm soon to be standing naked in.

With every garment that leaves my body, I feel more and more emotionally stripped. With only my undies left to be taken off, I feel wetness filling my eyes but I push it back, I push the tears that's threatening to appear back inside where they came from.

I'm not even sure what I would be crying for.

Therefore, I suck it up while I strip myself of the last clothing on this fragile body of mine. Entering the shower seems harder than usual, the gush of water not as comforting as it usually feels. My body feels heavy, worn out, and I wish it was only from exertion. I wish it was just physically, just a normal weariness after a heavy workout.

But it isn't.

It's a constant reminder of the events of this day, of how this day has played out before me. Of these personal steps forward that only sent me several steps backward with Glen.

I don't know how to fix this.

And the voices being heard from the room next door doesn't help me in my vain attempt at finding a cure, a something that will repair the broken bond between two people that seemed to need eachother. Two people that happens to be me and Glen.

"She's just... being really weird lately, and I don't know what to do about it."

There's no trace of doubt in my mind that that voice belongs to Glen, the light, squeaky nature of it telling me he's visibly upset.

I happen to miss the reply to his sentence, and feeling curiosity seep into my every pore, I gently lay my head into the wall, close my eyes, listen.

"I don't want her to push me away, today she even went to the gym without me..! She's never done that!"

"Maybe it's healthy that she does things on her own. You know, she can't always rely on you, it's not healthy for either one of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're practically smothering her, Glen! She's not some lamb that you can just  
pet and take care of, let her be her own person for God's sake.."

"...when did you suddenly start defending her?"

"I'm not defending her."

"Oh, so speaking up for her on Sunday wasn't you defending her? Please.."

"I wasn't!"

"What's up with you two lately anyway, I thought you hated eachother?!"

"Nothing's up with us, what are you talking about?"

"You used to loathe her and suddenly now you're speaking up for her?"

"That's because you asked me to!"

"I asked you to be nicer to her, not suddenly her protector!"

"Oh, so you're afraid your being replaced, huh? Afraid of losing the power you have over her-.."

"Now you're being ridiculous..."

"You're obviously in love with her!!"

There's a deafening silence overtaking not only the room next door, but also the shower I'm residing in, my ears burning after the words hit them.

"...what?"

"I see the way you look at her..."

"I'm not-..."

"Sure Glen, keep telling yourself that, cause you're the only one believing yourself."

The voices have calmed down, and I can only faintly hear them, my mind working so fast that the words being spoken are almost missed.

"Look, Glen, I know, okey? And I don't care, love her for all you want, just know that you can't act on it. She's supposed to be our sister, how do you think mom and dad are gonna react?"

"Well, if she's supposed to be our _sister_, then why are you being the biggest bitch to her?"

"We've already had this discussion-..."

"Yeah, and what answer did you have? Please Spence, I've heard your stupid  
excuses too many times, save it for someone who believes them."

And with that, the door slams shut, the house turns silent, and we're all suddenly alone. Alone with our thoughts, alone with our confusion, alone like the day we left our mother's womb.


	16. Get the Gist

**Get the gist**

The house has been unusually quiet.

There's no laughter filling the walls.

There's no shouts clinging to the ceiling.

Footsteps are being treaded cautiously, conversations exchanged in courtesy.

Paula goes to work at 6am and doesn't come home before late evening. She's probably pleased by the few sounds that inhabit the house, never knowing that the quietness is present at day as much as night.

Arthur has noticed. He's louder than usual, singing with more fervor as he tosses and cackles with the kitchen supplies. He's checking in on us more frequently too, attempting to make us join him, make us join eachother. His pleas for movie nights are never successful, the dinner table silenced apart from Arthur's shallow questions being thrown from one person to the other.

He's trying to engage us, unite us as a family inside these four walls that surround us. Inside these four walls that separate us.

I know how he feels. I know he feels like it's like starting all over. Like beginning from scratch again, only this time no one's trying, no one's engaged.

Glen's seclusion is starting to really get at me. He was my best friend, my protector, my helper. My _brother_. His sudden retraction from all things involving me has cast a shadow over my once grateful being, I'm no longer feeling as welcome in this house as I once did.

He hasn't been mean, or disrespectful, or obvious in his silent reclusion, his manner slowly evolving into one of depression. He's softly alienating himself from not only me, but everyone around him, and I don't want to be the cause of it.

Spencer is no longer throwing me nasty glances, there's no pretend in her avoidance, she's merely just retreating herself to her room. Nothing about her is out of the ordinary, her discovery of Glen's more-than-friendly feelings toward me has not been acknowledged, not been seen in her demeanor.

I'm able to look at them more closely tonight, Arthur finally succeeding in his attempts at uniting us for a movie night. I don't know how long he'll succeed though, the mere occurrence of both Glen and Spencer being home on a Saturday night is not possible. And we're all aware of it.

"So, who's your date tonight, Spence?"

"Mom!"

"What, aren't your parents obliged to know who you're spending the evening with?"

Arthur is throwing Spencer a knowing look, the kindness in his eyes telling her to  
just go along with it, to please Paula's overbearing curiosity.

I've got the best view.

The darkness that embraces us this late Saturday evening is making me see things differently than I've been able to before. Paula and Arthur are cuddled  
tightly together on the couch, Spencer keeping her distance from them on her side of it. Her arms are tightly knit around her, a sense of physical defensiveness overtaking her features. Her eyes are cast toward the television screen, but she's obviously not watching the movements on it. Her face is stoic, hard, the light from the television screen dancing on her features, highlighting the landscape of her face in a way that makes her eyes stand out. They're not eliciting the sparkling blue that usually fills her eyes, a deeper, more intricate shade of blue having taken possession of them in this moment in time.

Glen is not giving his attention to anyone; his eyes are following the movements of the television screen where he's sprawled all over the loveseat in front of me. Even the way he lies is different from what we're used to, the nosy nature he's inherited from his mom not appearing tonight.

When Spencer finally replies to her mom's incessant probing, it's with a huff of a sentence, one that makes her face get lit up in different ways than before. I'm not actually listening to her answer, too focused on the way her lips move with the pronunciation of each word. The darkness makes it feel safe to watch her, like she's unable to see me where I'm sitting oblivious in my own light.

It's not as luminous on me though, therefore I'm under the illusion that I'm  
invisible, that the glances I throw around won't be noticed by the people I'm watching.

It's amazing what you manage to believe if you choose to ignore common logic, when something you want to believe becomes your reality. I suppose this is what fooled me, what tricked my mind to imagine that no one would be able to see me.

My blatant staring at Spencer was never meant to be discovered, no one was supposed to know. If I suspected I could get caught, I never would've engaged in this forbidden activity, but the spell she seems to put me under easily takes me in.

And easily calls me out.

Therefore, I'm shocked when my eyes finally leave her and wander over to the couch in front of me. The one with a boy of unknown thoughts, of unknown understanding, of unknown discovery. His eyes bore into me, the terror easily traceable in my expression. I don't know how I could downplay this, how I could make it look like I didn't just scan his sister's features in the most scrutinizing way.

Because I don't know how much my eyes really gave away.

Her date did come. Someone from another school, another neighborhood, another gender.

He was invited in, hand clasping warmly with everyone's as he did was what expected of him.

He did it a bit too perfectly. The confident but respectful appearance he put on in front of us was well rehearsed, well worn out. The looks he threw in Spencer's direction were ones of pretended affection, a front to put on when in company of someone's parents.

They left not long after, I'm pretty sure as to what they had planned.

And I really _really_ don't want to think about it.

The movie's not over, having been put on pause as Spencer's date were introduced, and as I feel obliged to watch the rest of it, I'm unable to avoid Glen's presence. He hasn't said anything, hasn't had the chance yet. But I feel his eyes upon me as I'm desperately throwing my attention to the television screen, suppressing one cringe after another for every time I am reminded of my slip. Of my stare.

I'm used to him looking at me. It's usually with warmness, with care. This time though, it's different. He's not sending me snugly feelings with the glances he's projecting, there's something else present this time. And it's not of the pleasant variety.

I managed to escape. I managed to slip out of the living room without Glen following me, or even giving me a look of an intervention coming my way. He merely cast his eyes shortly on me, leaving me with a bitter feeling in the pit of my stomach. I can't help but feel unveiled, exposed, his eyes telling me I'm not allowed, I'm not approved.

It scares me that I let it go this far. That I let someone catch a glimpse of these inappropriate emotions that course through me, that I let someone _see_.

I've come to terms with what these feelings have in store for me. I've accepted it, learnt to live with it, embraced it. It's the looks, the judging, and most of all the complicated and impossible situation I'm gotten myself into that tears at my insides.

Maybe if it had been someone else. Maybe if my joke of a heart had decided to put its effort on someone else, then maybe it would've been easier. Maybe it would've been possible.

Because of this situation, this state of heart that lays within me, I'm unable to see a way out. Deep within this family's values lies a faith that doesn't approve of what I feel, or what I _am_. It hasn't struck that deep inside me yet, and I don't believe it ever will. But it's rooted in everyone else, and if it hadn't been for this family that's finally accepted me, I probably wouldn't have any problem about coming out. 'Cause I didn't have anyone to please.

That's not the case anymore though. I cannot live my own life anymore, not without the knowledge of someone watching me, testing me, loving me. But I do not believe it's _unconditional_ love, and that's what scares me.

The chance of it not being explicit.

Guess who was sleeping in her own bed this morning?

Yes, I did too.

But it's not me that I'm talking about

I'm talking about the other girl sleeping under this shared roof, this familiar cover  
that protects us all.

I don't know when she got home. It could've been early morning, could've been late last night. All I know is the warm whiff of relief rushing through me when I see her already at the breakfast table the morning after.

Maybe she cut the date off short, maybe – just maybe – she didn't give to him what she gives to all the others. Maybe she for once actually stayed _clothed_.

The thoughts, the vivid imagery that courses through the inside of my eyeballs is explicit; cringe-worthy. And it's not just imagined.  
The picture of a half-naked Spencer being feeled up in the backseat of Glen's car is as clear as day, the moans she elicited still protruding into my auditory canals. And they don't amuse me, they don't excite me. There's nothing sexy about reminiscing Spencer's own hands touching someone else, her willingness to get undressed.

Therefore, I don't want to think about the possibility of these things happening last night; of someone touching her, pleasing her.

However much I don't want to know about about it, I'm still curious of Spencer's answer when Paula asks her how the date went. I might pretend to not care, to not be affected.

But God knows I'm way more affected than what I'm allowed to be.

"It was cool, we went over to Sadie's place to watch a movie after dinner."

"So you stayed over there?"

"Yeah, it got so late that I just slept on her couch when he left."

Lies. All lies.

They're not even good lies, the ones she seem to sputter out in every direction, still they haven't caught on. Still, they don't see their daughter as what she is. A _whore_.

Harsh, but in this moment, in this disappointment that gnaws at my guts, I feel inclined to be vicious. Inclined to act immature.

There's no expression indicating what I feel though, as I know Glen's eyes are glued on me. Like they've been every time Spencer's answered. Every time Paula's asked. There's only one safe place for me to act out what I feel; and that's in my own room, in my own company, _alone_.

I'm scared of Glen, I'm scared of him noticing anything beyond what he has already seen. I'm scared of giving him evidence of what his mind believes. Of what his guts are sure of.

Of what he's perfectly right in.

"So, Glen and Ashley, any romantic interests for any of you, maybe?", Paula gleefully drawls out in a teasing manner. Her eyes shine in curiosity, mine in terror and Glen's in confusion. Neither one of us answer, which only throws petrol on the ever-rising fire in Paula's nosy nature.

"You wouldn't want to bring anyone to dinner on Tuesday, would you? I'll make lasagna!"

"No!"

The groan in unanimous, Glen and Spencer shouting it out loudly for Paula to hear, me merely thinking it loudly in my mind.

I'm still not accustomed to show ingratitude.

"Okey, okey, I promise to not cook anything if you promise to bring someone over, even if it's just a friend!"

She nudges Arthur lightly in the side, being very obvious in her _hidden_ prayer that we might just bring someone of interest to the table.

If they just knew both of us already have one seated.


	17. Take Umbrage

**Take Umbrage**

I called him.

I actually _called_.

I didn't send him a text message, didn't leave a message on his answering machine.

I _called_.

When he picked up, I could tell the smirk was present on this face even though his tone didn't really give it away. He seemed pleased, not happy, to hear from me. The sarcastic remark thrown my way at me contacting _him_ – not the other way around – was laced with content, satisfaction. Like we had an ongoing bet that I didn't know about.

Like the phone call in itself wasn't hard enough to go through, he didn't even _try_ to help me with what he knew was coming next. An invitation. My small hints muttered into the cellphone didn't phase him at all, there was no trace of an understanding between us other than him eliciting forth a solid inquiry from me.

And he got it.

The tame "You wouldn't want to come over to hang out or something on Tuesday, would you?" wasn't good enough for him. His vague reply forced me to take another try at asking him to come.

"Uhm, Paula's making dinner, and I thought that you might want to come?"

Nope. Still not good enough for that tease of a boy.

"Okey! I'm asking you to come over on Tuesday, 'cause Paula asked us to bring someone and I don't have anyone else to ask!"

Rushed, heated, and honest to the bone.

He's not offended. He's not shocked. The silence on the other end of the line is at  
first frightening, then confusing, then annoying. 'Cause I can hear a low chuckle far inside the telephone line, reaching far inside my own mind. He's won, he turned out victorious in this hidden battle between our mental selves.

But I don't feel like a loser.

I've put more hair products in my hair tonight than I ever have before.

Not that I had any say in it.

When I told Paula I had invited a friend over, she immediately read it as a 'friend', not as the acquaintance he really is. When she wanted me to go shopping with her, I could see the joy written in her eyes, her cheerful attitude one I didn't have the heart nor power to break. When I saw the clothes and products she wanted me to buy, it took all self-control to not cringe in disgust, feeling shameful for not being appreciative enough.

She didn't bring Spencer with her. It was only me and Paula, no biological Carlin kid in sight. I was content with not having Glen by my side, his judging eyes following my every footstep, my every move. Spencer, on the other hand, is someone I wished was present. Not because her presence no longer frightens me, not because I want to spent time with her. It's because I felt like I'd taken her place, that I was overtaking a role that was supposed to be Spencer's, a mother-daughter relationship that was never supposed to have me in it.

She was happy though, Paula, as she sauntered through one shop and into another. Money didn't seem to be an issue as she gladly handed them over, barely taking any look at the price tags. "Nothing was too expensive for her girl's 'big night'."

A sentence I will forever remember.

And this is what got me into the situation I'm currently wallowing in. My hair sticky of god-knows-what, clothes a finer shade of what I'm used to, I'm thinking up ways to tell them that this is not a date. That this is not more than what it looks like.

But it is.

It's so much more than what it looks like.

Not only will I bring a handsome guy to the table, making my foster parents proud  
of me. It will also show _them_ that I'm not affected by them anymore. That I no longer depend on their lives to make one of my own. It will hopefully cause Glen to stop pining over me, effectively bringing him back, bringing back my _brother_.

But the biggest anticipation is the effect it will have on the Carlin not yet mentioned. I don't know what I'm expecting from her, there's no real hope for anything to come from her. But hopefully it will provoke some kinda reaction.

I'm just not sure which.

Or if it will be of good kind.

Swinging myself down the stairs, I see Glen opening the door in a bored manner, his demeanor one of confusion, annoyance.

"Who are you?"

I can see the smug smirk on Aiden's face as he's about to answer, my feet going faster than before, desperately hoping to calm the situation bound to happen  
before me.

"He's a friend of mine, I invited him over for dinner. I mean, Paula asked me to."

"You invited this guy over for dinner...?"

His voice isn't harsh, it isn't mocking.

It's just unbelievably sad.

"Uh, yeah... didn't she ask us all? I mean-.."

"She did, I just didn't-... I didn't know you had actually done it, invited anyone I mean."

My eyes are drawn back to the boy on the doorsteps, his eyebrows raising in  
disbelief, undoubtedly telling me what a ridiculous situation I've gotten him in.

I choose to break it.

"Well, I did. Uhm, Aiden, maybe you would want to come in?"

"Would I?"

"Yes", is all I answer before I press my hand onto his wrist, pulling him in for fear of the situation becoming even more awkward than it already is. A slow dribble of regret fills the inside of my bones as I feel Glen's eyes on my back, his head already hanging low when I turned around and started my long walk into the living room.

The grip on Aiden's wrist didn't last long. Mere seconds after it was initiated was all it took for me to drop it like a can of worms. Like the can of worms Aiden opens with his brutal line.

"I sense some drama tonight, how vicious of you to invite me over to make that love-sick puppy jealous."

He smashes it into my face, giving me no chance to prepare as my head looks frantically back towards the hallway, terrified that Glen could've heard, could've been let in on my knowledge. A knowledge he already inhabits, made perfectly clear by the way he's avoiding me, leaving me be.

Still, there's a bit of error in Aiden's sentence, Glen is not the one I'm aiming for, he's not the one I want.

"I don't know what you mean", leaves my lips faster than it should have, giving Aiden a reason to torment me further, probing me on.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"It's not like that, it's-...can we please just-..."

His grin slowly falters, eyes turning softer in a silent show of understanding, knowing that however much he loves to tease me, probe me on, this is not the time.

There's never been a worse time.

It's all wrong. Everything I hoped for is put in reversal, a knife stabbing at my insides, twisting in sadism.

Scenes of Spencer walking down the stairs, head turning up to meet the lecherous face of Aiden, smile gracing her features instead of the frowned I hoped for.

Hands grasping one another, fingers drawing letters of attraction in the insides of each other's palm. Innocent 'hi's being said when their inside voices whispered words of seduction laced into the fabric of their pronunciation.

Chairs being placed closer than they need to, laughter mingling inside one another, creating a tune I'm not supposed to hear. Their bodies shifted toward one another, open and inviting only to the other.

Banter of phantom familiarity builds a cocoon of comfort between them, a comfort I'm not privy to. Eyes drawing maps of recognition on the other's face, lessons being taught for the other to learn them, remember them.

I haven't let my eyes leave them since I first saw them interact, Spencer and Aiden in their obvious flirtation. There's no need to turn away, to hide the open glares of discomfort overtaking every feature of my soul. No eyes have been cast my way, no words of inclusion bringing me into their nest.

To an outside person, one outside this secret world of mold they're choking me in, it's an easy dinner, one of laughter, one of smiles.

But I'm not smiling.

I'm overlooked, I'm not there. I don't see any reason to join them in their  
happiness, because I'm not feeling it. I'm not one of them, never feeling more like someone apart from them.

The chair to my right is turned away from me, the owner of it unaware of my existence. When the only thing I wanted was for her to finally see me.

Random fingers are keeping my head from rolling off my body, tired bones barely keeping the elbows from falling off of my knees.

They're still inside, still playing a game of monopoly I didn't even try to participate in. They should have seen my discomfort, they should have detected my mood but none of them did. None of them even _looked_ at me.

I never thought I would ever feel this way again, this longing for previous times, previous homes, but right now I can't help it.

Because this house hurts me more than any of the others ever did.

Now and then I can hear their roars from inside, the happy times I'm still not included in, the bonds of a family that I still haven't touched.

That I'm still not even close to touch.

I'm blaming them for not including me enough, for not making it dysfunctional  
enough, for being too perfect. They live a life I've never been privy to, one I can't handle, one I can't understand.  
I blame Aiden for stealing away what I want, what I need. My dear old friend 'hope' that he ripped from me and threw away like it meant nothing to him, while it meant everything to me.

The shadows of the tree begs me to let them dance across my features, but I'm  
not letting them, I'm not in any shape to make them smile.

To make anyone smile.

That's why I've taken residence of this place in the garden, hidden behind leaves and broaches, faking a need to not be seen.

Because all I want to is to be seen.

I can't see the door opening, as my head is battling with those brave fingers not letting me fall into a heap. But I can hear it squeak itself open, a person's hand grazing the outside doorhandle, still not out in full view. I can imagine the gestures, the disappointment of having to leave the other's intimacy, I don't need to see it to know it's there.  
The laughter fills the evening air, soft voices whispering words of reunion in a different time, in a different setting. Then they die down, only footsteps breaking this deafening agony they're putting me in.

I don't want this anymore. I don't want Aiden to give me back my hope, I don't  
want him to beg and grovel for my forgiveness.

I just want these feelings to go away. Because they will never be requited, they will never serve a purpose other than what they're doing right now.

Choking me.

So when I hear footsteps coming my way, I'm not happy, I'm not relieved that someone finally noticed me.

Because it's too late.

Not even the body sliding down next to me – projecting a warmth that spreads through me – can make this better, can make me feel at place.

Not even the hand that shakily lays itself down on my thigh is soothing the turmoil in my head.

I'm rejecting her like a body rejecting an organ it needs, I'm not letting her see me, I'm not letting the shadows dance from her face and upon mine. We are nothing alike, therefore we're not allowed to share the same light.

"I know you didn't do anything."

And suddenly the organ fits, suddenly my body grants its presence, curiosity filling the veins it's attached to.

"I know you only tried to help."

There's something familiar with her words, with their meaning but I can't seem to place them, I can't seem to find the puzzle in which the piece is a part of. Therefore, I dare myself to look at her, I dare myself to be drawn into those eyes I'll never get.

Her eyes doesn't find mine instantly, instead traveling a path from my cheeks and upwards, finally resting on mine with a sympathetic look. Those fingers of mine no longer holding any essential purpose find their way up to touch the trail she left with her eyes, fingers feeling the moisture of tears in their path.

I'm openly crying, and I'm letting her see.

"You know, all those months ago."

She can see the confusion in the wrinkle of my forehead, in the arch of my eyebrow. When she sees my lips quiver, looking for words to express what she's already read from my face, she stops me, halts me with a squeeze on my thigh.

"Just, don't-.."

Two words hanging loosely in the air, a sentence begging for continuation, for a  
longer life than what she's giving it.

There's no more words coming from her though.

Not even from her eyes when she turns away from me, looking out on the garden  
instead of the river on my cheeks.

No more words are spoken, my lips not being able to form all those questions they're begging me to release. It's uncomfortably quiet, the leaves rustling in the background doing nothing to slow down my quickening pulse.

We're so quiet.

So quiet that I barely notice that her hand is no longer on my thigh, but never so quiet that I don't notice the hand slipping into my own, emitting a warmth that will probably never leave me.

"I don't understand you."


	18. Knuckle Under

**Knuckle under**

I used to believe awkwardness was bound by the people emitting it, not necessarily the situation or place they were in.

I still believe it.

But this house, this keeper of all things awkward is making me believe both options. That a room can be awkward in its essence, in its claustrophobic hold on those within its four walls.

I saw Paula and Glen on this couch earlier today. Their conversation strained, Paula fishing for answers, Glen resisting the bait.

Even Paula noticed the tension.

There were actions of hers that spoke loudly of unease, how her body kept shifting position, how she intentionally let her hair fall into her face so that she could brush it away to keep her hands occupied.

Glen was stoic.

When Paula shut the television off, he no longer had any reason to stare passively at the screen but still chose to engage in that activity instead of listening to Paula's nagging queries.

I observed secretly from a place on the stairs, hidden from the oblivious glance but evident for the searching stare.

I felt safe enough.

That safeness from the stairs is no longer with me though, as I am the person in Glen's suddenly vacant place. It's no longer warm from his touch, Glen having left the house an hour ago to hit the gym.

Not so much as throwing a glance in my direction.

I wish he had asked me to come with him, asked me to go anywhere but this situation and this company that I'm surrounded by. He didn't though, and that's why I'm surrounded by a family I'm not sure how to act around.

Still.

Paula has been making more and more effort lately, she's no longer working ungodly hours, she's no longer exhausted and tired when she comes home from work. Our little bonding time at the mall a week ago has not been forgotten, has not been ignored.

"Arthur, you should have seen all the gorgeous clothes that would've been perfect for Ashley here...!"

He's watching her warmly from behind the kitchen counter, his fingers continuing their task at hand and I'm just waiting for a disaster, waiting for a cut to happen. Paula's arm is touching my shoulder, gently rocking me back and forth in a show of parental affection, but I'm not feeling it.

All I'm feeling is the girl to my right, the girl on another couch, in another world.

She's spacing out on us and it makes me relieved, it makes me not as guilty for the attention I'm robbing her off.

"She looked so pretty in this one dress I made her try out, you should have seen her Arthur, she was quite the looker. Too bad she didn't let me buy it for her."

Her hand is still upon my shoulder, the touch heated in the wrong way, in the humid way.

He is still watching her while continuing to cut up the vegetables that were small enough ages ago, and I'm envious. I'm envious that he can do so, that he can watch her in broad daylight as well as in twilight, that he can stare at her in public as well as in private. That he can do this so thoughtlessly, so naturally.

So perfectly allowed.

"We should do something together sometime, the whole family, wouldn't that be nice? Hmm, girls?"

I don't think she's noticed, I don't think Spencer's aware of a question being thrown into the room, but I can't know for sure. Because I haven't as much as briefly sent her a glance. I haven't as much as tipped my feet into the burning heat of danger that my eyes on her throw me into.

Eerie silence fills the walls, presses them outwards and makes this room seem bigger, seem more open and vulnerable.

Like we're in a once burning building, only the foundation wall and this worn out interior left of what once was.

I choose to break it, choose to catch the question before it's been too long, too far for us to answer it comfortably, naturally.

"Yeah, that's be nice."

It's nowhere near nice, it's so far from it that I'm questioning its existence, but how could I answer any different? How could I ever voice what my head is screaming?

It's a lie, but it's only hurting myself.

That's why I don't feel bad, don't feel that sting of regret that usually punishes me when I've been unfaithful to the truth.

"What about you, Spencer?"

My head twitches in Spencer's direction, an awkward action that is barely physical but hugely fundamental to the warmth that spreads through my cheeks when Paula looks at me strangely.

I cannot look at her, even when it's allowed.

Because I don't think I'm _ever_ allowed.

"Why?"

"Why what, honey?"

"Why do we have to do something together?"

It's so cold, the sentence, so laced with contempt that I'm regretting my previous  
lie, that I'm regretting not telling the truth about how much I _don't_ want to do  
something together. Because hearing it voiced from her lips seems to make it hurt more than I ever could.

"Spencer, don't be so hostile, I'm just trying to do something nice for us all. You used to love family time when you were younger..!"

"Well, times change."

The hand that has been grabbing my shoulder tightens, tenses simultaneously with the rest of Paula's body, her jaw clenching in obvious restrain.

She's anything but happy.

"Spencer, you haven't been anything but hostile and mean ever since-..."

"Since what? Since Ashley came into the house? That's what you were gonna say, right?"

"Spencer!"

"What? She's not some child that can't handle the truth, she's seventeen mom, seventeen! But you obviously haven't noticed that, have you?"

"Don't-..."

"Don't what, mom? Don't talk like this when she's in the room?"

I'm no longer avoiding her gaze, I'm not longer acting uninterested, timid. How  
can I do so when the conversation taking place before me shocks me, frightens me, leaves my eyes to stare openly between the two women before me?

"You obviously don't have any problems talking about her when she's not present!"

"Sp-.."

"You know what mom, just forget it."

My eyes don't follow her as she stomps out of the room, they're rooted to the spot she previously occupied. The words from earlier lingers around me, pushes into me, chills me.

"I'm so sorry, Ashley, I don't know what's gotten into her lately."

Her hand brushes lightly through my curls, opening up my face for her to watch me more closely. I can no longer hide what I feel because I don't know what to hide. I don't know what I feel. The moisture in my eyes aren't exactly tears, they're more a show of exasperation, of not knowing what to do with myself.

And Paula's not the only one I notice, as my eyes travel their own path towards the stairs, somehow leading me in a direction I'm not sure I want to take.

Because I can see her on the steps, I can see her in a spot I not long ago inhabited myself and the posture of her frame tells me more than her eyes does. Because they're closed, hidden from my glare although she knows I'm watching her, knows I'm seeing more than I should.

Because her body is telling me things, it's telling me a story I'm not sure how to read yet, but it's telling me something.

It's finally telling me something.


	19. Rusty Needle

**Rusty Needle**

She's touching me, she's touching me in all the wrong ways.

There's not a single hand touching my body, no feet grazing my own, no forehead pressed against my own. I'm not next to anyone, the closest thing to my skin being the blanket above me and the mattress beneath me.

Still, she's touching me.

She's penetrating me, so deep inside me that I'm unable to fall asleep, unable to keep still. 'Cause she's not touching me physically. She doesn't even know she's doing it.

Her hunched body with a hand pressed into her forehead is printed in the ceiling, is printed in my eyelids when I try to block it out, it won't leave, it won't leave me alone. She's in front of me, she's pressed away from me, she's behind the bars of the stairs, half-hidden but never more exposed.

The sheets have been kicked away from me, then draped over me again, then rolled around me, then me rolled around it.

I can't sleep but I can't wake.

All that is happening to me is moments intruding my mind, passing before me wherever I look, shades and objects performing plays of what once was, bad and good mixed up in ways it shouldn't, memories blending together, dreams pushing inside reality, it won't stop, I can't stop.

"You obviously don't have any problems talking about her when she's not present!"

"Sp-.."

"You know what mom, just forget it."

Eyes and movements, sentences voiced in different settings, hands grazing when words of resentment are present.

So quiet that I barely notice that her hand is no longer on my thigh, but never so quiet that I don't notice the hand slipping into my own, emitting a warmth that will probably never leave me.

--

She roughly releases her grip on me, and the lips almost touching my ear have been removed as far away from me as possible, as Spencer walks backwards toward the door.

"Your little joke on me a week ago doesn't seem so clever anymore, does it? Just don't think you'll ever get away with doing something like that again, okey?"

I can't play it chronologically, because nothing about her is in order, nothing about _us_ are in order. She's sinking deeper and deeper into me, ruffling up my memories, overstepping old ones, using up space, space I never wanted her to have. Space that was always hers to take.

"I don't understand you."

And we don't, we don't understand each other, and we won't, we'll never understand the other. And it hurts, because all I want to is to understand. And what I want even more than to understand, is to feel her look upon me like I look at her, I'd throw away all understanding if she would look at me like I do, if she would smile at me like I've always wanted to smile at her, if she would tell me things I've only ever told her in my dreams. But then maybe I would understand her, maybe then I would be able to read her, see her, touch her like she touches me, because she would channel me, she would be like me.

And that's never going to happen.

It's never going to happen.

Those words repeated in my head over and over and over doesn't stop the sheets from crumbling in my hands, doesn't stop the ache of tears to come, doesn't stop the restlessness that's punishing my body, that's punishing its reactions with tiring it out, with tiring _me_ out.

And when the door opens, I'm sure I see her, I'm sure the silhouette belongs to her even when the hair is short, even when the body is masculine, because I want it so much, I want it too much to be her. And when I mumble her name I know it's the wrong one, I know she's not there, she's nowhere near me. And when hands touch my forehead, I know it's not hers, I know they're nowhere near hers but I try to pretend, I try so hard to pretend because there's nothing more I want than for her hands to be on me. For any part of her to touch me.

It leaves, this person in the room leaves but the light from the hallway still punishes my eyes, punishes them for getting used to the darkness, the artificial darkness because we all know real darkness doesn't exist, it doesn't exist because mankind has taken it away from us, taken it away. I want to scream at someone to lock it, to lock the brightness out, but my voice has left me, it's left me alone to rot in these sheets, to rot in this tearstained pillow.

And when the brightness disappears, when it finally goes away for just a brief moment in time, it's only to be made worse when the persons blocking it produces more light, produces more pain.

"She's obviously having a fever."

And it's female, the voice is female, it's light and feminine and harsh and devoid of the melodies I'd want to press into my ear because it doesn't belong to her, nothing belongs to her when it's next to me. Because she's never next to me.

And it's getting hotter, it's getting way hotter in the room and it's not because of her, it's not because of her presence, it's got nothing to do with her presence because it's not welcomed, any heat from her would be welcomed but it's not her heat, it's not my heat for her, it's a different kind of heat, an unwelcomed heat that I'm sure I've felt before, that I'm sure I've witnessed before. Because the voices are loud in my ear, and I'm starting to make them out, I'm starting to wake up from this nightmare of reality, I'm starting to clear up because of the noise, because of someone calling my name.

"Ashley, Ash are you listening? You're having some kinda fever-nightmare, Ash please wake up."

And I reach out, and I clutch because even if it isn't her, it's still someone I love, it's still someone I want and cherish, it's still someone that should be there, because it's him. It's my brother, it's my rock, and I've never needed my rock more than right now.

And when he strokes my forehead I want to push him away but even more, I want to push him closer, so I only clutch, I don't push at all, I only hold, hold his arm, his hard and hairy arm and it's a comfort, it's a comfort in this fever that's taking over me, in this nightmare that won't leave me, that won't stop me from getting to sleep, that won't stop me from sleeping the pain away.

"I'm gonna go down and find something antipyretic, okey? Will you stay with her, Glen?"

And it doesn't get worse but it doesn't get better either, and the memories are getting fainter and I should be happy, but I'm not, I don't want the memories to fade, all I wished was for them to fade but now when it's happening, all I want is for them to come back.

"Don't go..."

"Shh, Ash, I won't go, I'll stay with you."

And even if it wasn't addressed to him directly, it was addressed to him subconsciously, because I never wanted him to go, I never wanted him to leave at all, I didn't want my brother to leave and become someone else, I didn't want it to change, I never wanted him to think of me as more, and then change.

"Glen, I think I'm gonna die."

And the fever won't go away, and I know I'm not dying, I know I'm not even close to because I've felt this before, I've felt this in early childhood and early teens, and I'm feeling it again, it's familiar but never welcomed.

"Here, give her this."

And he's feeding me something, something dry on my tongue, something I don't know if I'll be able to swallow but I'm desperate, desperate for it to stop this fever so I swallow, I swallow without water and I cough, because it's attached to my throat, it doesn't want to go down, and it's making me cry more, and clutch more, and I'm desperate for the water in front of me.

And it takes a while, it takes a while for it to work, the pill to work, and it feels like forever when it's nowhere near forever, and when it finally kicks in, when it's finally letting my sweaty body relax, I'm drowsy, so drowsy but never so much as to letting him go, letting my brother go.

--

"Glen?"

"Yeah, Ash."

"I'm sorry."

I'm still not feeling top notch, I'm still feeling the effects of a fever in my head, it's pounding and pressing and extracting my brain but I'm better. I'm so much better.

"What for, Ash?"

"For-... Everything, really."

He didn't leave my side, I know he never left my side because I'm still holding onto him, my hand is still clutching his shirt like it did last night. He's not sleeping too close to me, pieces of his body hanging outside of the bed, and I wonder if it's because he's afraid. If he's afraid that I'll think he's coming on to me.

He never answers me, only sighs briefly while continuing to look at the ceiling. I've been watching him since I woke up, trying to read him like I did before and he's still letting me see. And it relieves me that he hasn't fully pushed me away. That I can still be a part of him, that he's still letting me be just that.

A part of him.

"Can we just go back?"

"Go back to what, Ash?"

He knows what I'm talking about, but I think he needs to hear it, I think he needs confirmation that I'm not the only one missing it, missing the closeness and banter and sibling love we had for each other.

"Go back to what we were. I've missed you."

I've never been blunt. Always been analyzing, always been self-conscious, insecure. But having survived a fever, and still feeling its effects is making me more honest, making me not care too much about how things are said. Because I have missed him, and even when I thought there was an ocean between us, he was still there for me, he was still there when I needed him.

Unlike someone else.

"You said her name, Ash."

And I can't look at him. Because even though I don't remember, even though I have no idea what I've said, I know who he's talking about. It's in his tone, in his voice, in his words.

There are lots of sentences I could've said, lost of maneuvers to try and act like nothing, but I don't. I don't try to do something I know I should, because I'm too tired to come up with anything. I'm too tired to come up with a reason.

He sighs again when I don't answer, but he doesn't leave, he doesn't trump out the door in anger, in repulsion.

"I wish-... I wish it was different, I wish this-...this void between us never happened but-... I mean, I see things. I see things I don't wanna see, and-..."

He looks to the side, the opposite of the one I'm on, and although I know his eyes hits the window, he's not looking out of it, because his thoughts are locking inside this room. I know what he's talking about, but I still hope with everything within me that he's talking about something else. Anything else.

"Just-..Ash-.. I just-...can't approve, I can't. It's not right."

And his words hurts so bad, so bad that whatever caused me to not lie earlier has completely disappeared and I'm back to pretending, back to pretending that what pulsate within me doesn't exist at all. Even if we both know it does.

"What are you talking about?"

It's not obviously hostile, just a subtle hint of annoyance in the back of my voice because I don't want him to believe I'm asking him to elaborate. I want anything but for him to elaborate.

Because I couldn't handle actually hearing it. Hearing his revelation, his disapproval.

His discovery.


	20. In Cahoots

**In cahoots**

They're heavy over my eyes, those eyelids, they're heavier than I've ever felt them before. They should be lighter now, no longer coating my eyes from my surroundings, but they aren't.

The curtains doesn't stop the light from disturbing the darkness that I've been sleeping in, neither does the door that is slowly opening into my room. I know it's not Glen coming in to check on me, his protectiveness over me appearing once again. I know, because I remember him leaving this morning, I remember him retracting from my grip, slowly placing my hands away from him and onto the mattress beside me. I know, because I remember him whispering lightly that he had to go, that he would be gone all day. I know, because he's written a note on my bedside table, telling me to call him if I need anything.  
I know it isn't Paula coming inside the room once again to check my temperature, I know it isn't her because she walked into my room just hours prior, leaning over me and placing a kiss to my temple, telling me to call her if I needed anything, telling me she would leave work in a heartbeat if I was feeling worse.  
I know the person opening the door right now isn't Arthur, because he didn't come home last night, he didn't fill this house with laughter and delicious aroma like he usually does. I know, because he's at a convention in another city, another state. I know, because he isn't humming his tune like he always does.

Still, I'm surprised to see the person standing in my doorway because I've never seen her there before. I've never felt her presence so close to my room before, it's different, it's more intimate, more intruding than I ever imagined it to be.

Her body is gently hugging the door, eyes scanning through the shy darkness and settling down on mine. It's too late to close my eyes, it's too late to pretend that I'm asleep. In my surprise of her presence, I forgot to put up those walls that needs to be standing whenever she's around, and now she's looking in on me. She's watching me, seeing me laid fragile on this bed, in this state. Sheets are tucked around me, hands grasping at the moist edges, proof of what I don't want to acknowledge. Proof of the emotions I don't want to remember, of tears in the night.

I'm no longer in fever, I'm no longer in pain. Those images and thoughts are no longer swirling through my mind at rapid speed, my head is clearer, more open. _I'm_ more open, and with my defenses not awoken, I'm just watching her. Just watching her like I'm allowed to.

Her eyes leave mine for a few seconds as she looks down on something in her hands, but mine stay where they are, glued upon her face like I'm unable to look anywhere else. Her vulnerable composure and her unsure eyes does things to me that I can't explain, I'm seeing those things I've only ever seen from her when I've been watching her in secret. It astounds me as much as confuse me that she's going it deliberately. Letting me see.

I would be a liar if I told you I didn't notice her closing the door behind her, I would be wrongful if I told you my arms didn't get goosebumps as she slowly neared me on my bed. When her toes is close enough for me to reach out and touch them, she slowly lowers her body onto the ground, one knee hitting the soft carpet before the other one soon follows. I'm watching every move happening, my eyes having left hers the minute she turned around to close the door. After that, I've just been watching her, completely, the way her left hand self-consciously cradles her neck, the way the glass of water sloshes around between her fingertips before she at last settles it down on my nightstand, out of her hands and ready for mine to take their place.

No eyes have met mine yet as she's sitting on her heels before me, waiting for me to accept her silent offer, to grab the water she so thoughtfully brought me at a time I'd love nothing more.

But I'm not thirsty anymore.

The curtains don't allow all light to hit her, only small portions of her frame being hit by it, and I wonder if she's used to it. Always having light touching her skin in some way, manifesting her features, proving her beauty.

I know she can see them, those backstabbing eyes of mine dancing over her face as easily as the light seems to do, but she doesn't stop me, she doesn't turn away. Instead her hand seems to find their way onto my mattress, laying there awkwardly next to my head, hovering in a state it's not supposed to be in. My eyelids are still heavy from sickness and sleep but it doesn't stop them from blinking rapidly at the sight of her so close to me, her hair sitting to her right side, head barely tilted.

"I don't-"

And her finger is touching my lips, silencing a sentence that has been passed between us before, one we both need to voice but neither can bare to hear.

_I don't understand you_.

"Shh, don't talk."

And I don't.

I'm completely still, afraid any movement will break this, will break what I don't understand, what I can't grasp. What is happening right in front of me, around me, _with_ me. Fingers no longer touch my lips, eyes no longer lingers on my own. She's not here anymore, and I don't know if she ever were. I can still see her, she's still touching me, fingers reaching out for my hair, lightly stroking it in a soothing manner, but she's not here.

When I don't succeed in my attempt to lure her eyes and mind onto me again, I instead decide to join her, join the world behind my eyelids because they have something in common, the world she sees in my bedroom wall and the one I see in utter darkness. They both lead us somewhere else. Somewhere away from this reality that surrounds us that we don't want to participate in.

Fingers entwine with my curls, getting stuck now and then when she runs her fingers through them. Her gaze is no longer thrown onto the blue walls of a room that was meant for a boy. It has crossed my mind before, that this room wasn't meant for me, wasn't prepared for me. It was always meant for someone else, and for every night I've laid down onto this bed, I've thought about who it was really meant for. Who's place I took, and when it will be given back to them and away from me. They're inappropriate, these thoughts that have crept into me before her gaze shifts from the wall and onto me again. I shouldn't think these thoughts but they're always around me, manifested in the walls that cage me, hug me.

"Sometimes I hate you."

And they are not her words, those deceiving words that could break us, that could break us in ways I'm not even sure are possible, because we were never whole. We've never been anything at all.

I'm the person who uttered these word of honesty, I'm the one to blame for a sentence voiced at the wrong time, to the wrong person. But however much I want to, I can't regret it. I just can't. Because sometimes I do. Hate her. Hate what she represents in general and especially what she represents to _me_.

I won't lie and tell you I enjoyed watching her blue eyes turn blurry at my words, because I didn't, I didn't enjoy it one bit. It didn't give me a sick – but human – kind of pleasure to see something sting her just like she's stung me over and over again. I wasn't even hoping for it, it wasn't my intention. Because I didn't have one.

"Okey..."

The hand in my hair slowly retreats like she's not allowed anymore, like my words shunned her for finally acting human, for finally showing something else. And I wonder if she punishes herself, I wonder if my words make her cringe inwardly, shun herself for breaking her demeanor down and laying herself bare. I wonder if she regrets.

"Sometimes I do too."

Her eyes never meet mine at her whispered confession and I'm not entirely sure what she means. I'm not quite at arms reach of what her words are telling me. So it scares me, this hovering state of ambiguity she's left the sentence – and me – in. So I ask her.

"Hate me?"

"No."

I know they're dancing again, those eyes of mine, because her eyes are doing the same, they're dancing with me. They're tiptoeing over my face like she's mapping out the landscape of my face but not quite comfortable with settling anywhere.

I visibly shiver when her eyes finally do, finally settle down. And it's not because they land on my mirroring eyes, it's not because they linger on my lips like my own eyes begs me to do with hers. Because they settle on my jawline, slowly following the trails down to my chin and her hand reaches out to touch it.

And it's the last thing she does before her hand drops down to the edge of the bed, her other hand joining it several inches to it's left and her body shifting in my direction. I'm so scared by the action and what it might represent that I close my eyes, I close them so tightly that it hurts but I don't care, I just can't look at her while she leaves. Because she's hoisting herself up from the floor, whispering "you should sleep" hurriedly in my direction before the pads of her feet can be heard clasping with the cold floor away from the carpet and away from the bed.

And I never hear the door close because there's a ringing in my head, there are loud screams and inquietude invading my senses and it causes those forgotten nightly rituals to reappear, it causes those almost dried edges of the sheets to again be soaked, again be the only comfort this house seems to provide.

And I'm not sure I will be able to forget these tears.


	21. The Living Daylights

**The living daylights**

I still feel them, those fingertips dancing on my skin when it's been hours since they last touched me.

I remember the paths they drew on my skin but I'm not sure if I believe them. If the path I feel etched into my skin is the same that she made or if I'm imagining new ones. I'm feeling future journeys that I'm merely hoping will be made, I'm dreaming of fingerprints stamped upon my lips, illusions of other parts touching me, the back of a hand as it slides down a cheek, forehead pressing awkwardly into a crook of a neck, feet entwining with estranged twins. And I'm afraid that hope and dreams will erase what actually happened, will taint the memory of what touched me, _who_ touched me.

I'm stepping in her late footsteps as I let the rug surround my toes and heel but they're not aligned, they're not treading the same way. I can almost feel her toes under my heels, no trace of her footprints anywhere but in my mind. But it's there they matter the most.

It feels awkward and gross when the battered hair on my scalp dangles down onto my shoulders as I stand up from the bed several hours after she left me here, and I'd rather it was just gone. Just gone and not a reminder of this sweaty and fever-ridden night that has left me weakened and pale. But I know my physical state is lying because I don't think I've ever been more brave than when I uttered the words of truth in the company of Spencer or when I silenced those words of denial when in the company of Glen. And I don't think I shone more brightly than when I saw something else than contempt inside the eyes of my obsession.

But these are not the thoughts and actions that have surrounded me throughout my life and it scares me, because how can I reflect on the good things when all I've ever felt have been the bad ones.

And this is what makes me want to chop my hair off, this is what makes me ache for that shower that will cleanse me of a night and morning that I should treasure and not fear, that I should store and remember, not resent and forget. I know it's wrong, still I choose to maintain it. This layer of pessimism and destruction that soaks every good thing that comes my way. And it shouldn't be this way. _I_ shouldn't be this way.

The perfect example of a good thing gone wrong is him, the guy in the blue towel that stands half naked before me when I open the door to the bathroom. I'd rather laugh than stand shocked before him, I'd rather join him in his chuckle than rip my blood-red face away from his body while uttering a sad apology. He's dressed in more than I've seen him in before, early mornings in boxer shorts a common site in the Carlin hallway, still I feel embarrassed on his behalf, being seen in next to nothing while the girl he likes is watching him.

I know I would be. If the girl I liked saw me exposed in such a way.

But he doesn't seem phased, his wet hair being shaken side to side, sputtering and splashing onto the tiles of the room; some droplets hitting my face in the process. His good nature has always rubbed off on me and his smile has always brought one out of me as well, and this is no exception. Because under that layer of embarrassment that first appeared on my face, a smile suddenly forms and it calms me, stills me. Sooths me.

And maybe things aren't so bad after all.

"Sorry, I didn't meant to walk in on-... Hey, you're getting me wet!"

He's deliberately shaking his head in my direction, water hitting the towel I've got clutched inside my palms and I couldn't care less, he could soak anything I own and I'd be happy because this moment makes me happy. Seeing him happy again.

"Like you weren't going to get water on you in the shower anyway..!" he banters back, a grin spreading like wildfire onto his face, up his cheeks and reaching his eyes in no time. And the happy expression is soon mirrored on my own face. I didn't think it would be this easy. Getting him back, getting the comfortableness back in motion, the banter, the teasing, the genuine smiles.

I guess sometimes it just is.

Easy.

"But you're soaking my towel..!" I half-shriek, not too comfortable with making loud noises when I've never really made them before.

"You're the one standing in the bathroom, I'm not forcing you to...!" he grins at me again before reaching out and pulling at me, lifting me up in his cold and moist embrace just to tease me and I kick and shout like I'm supposed to, like I _want_ to. And when he complies to let me loose, I'm regretful, instantly missing the close contact to a guy I've missed more than anything these last few weeks, and before I have time to fret over actions and choices, I embrace him again, I willingly move into those cold arms because they warm my soul.

"You know I love you, right?"

Even he is shocked at my words, his grip loosening then tightening more on me than it ever has before. I know we've been sharing the same loss, we've been sharing the same pain. And now we're sharing the same happiness over finally being together again. Finally being home.

"I love you too, sis'."

He's been looking at me strangely for an hour and it bugs the hell out of me. Just seriously makes me want to smack him and I'm afraid I will if he comes up to me. I'm afraid I will if I let my eyes meet his sizzling ones from across the gym.

I think what saves me from being overpowered by anger is that I'm already punching something, I'm already seeing his face etched into the punching bag I'm targeting as we speak. I still don't want his apologies, I still don't want any words of excuse uttered from his lips because I know he didn't do anything wrong. I was never interested and he knew it from the second we met that it would never come to that. He obviously thought I used him as a ploy in my own little game and he instead chose to make one of his own.

Still, I can't forgive him for hurting me the way he did.

Still, I can't forgive myself for subconsciously thanking him for giving me a moment with Spencer that I never would've had otherwise.

"You can go talk to him, you know. I won't mind."

Glen doesn't look at me as he mutters the words, and neither do I. We only focus more thoroughly on the task at hand and it takes me awhile to understand the reason behind his words.  
My first impression is that he's jealous, that he only tells me because he feels obliged to, but the tone in his voice isn't tainted with jealousy, instead it has an aura of hope inside it. Or urge, of willingness to let go. And at first it calms be but not for long. Because I heard him five days ago, I heard him voice what I was almost too scared to admit myself, that he _knows_.  
And when he urges me to pursuit a guy who weeks ago crushed him like nothing else, I know his reason.

There's someone more painful for him to see me with.

"I don't want to."

And that easiness that came upon us days ago slowly slips out of our grasp when he shifts his gaze toward me with a conflicted expression painted on his features.

"I don't mind, you know."

It's the first hint of his own admission of ever having feelings for me and I'm not sure how to react, how he wants me to react. So I take the same route as I did four days ago, when I embraced what I felt and in turn embraced a brother.

"But I do."

"I thought you liked him?"

I know he's holding on to the hope of his discovery not being true, just being a horrid illusion without any ties to reality and however much I want to grant it to him, I can't. I just...can't.

"I don't, Glen. I never did."

Eyes are cast upon me and even if I know it'll hurt, I meet them, I meet them in a stare that I try to hold as long as possible before I waver and lose my resolve. Because it pains him, those symptoms of unorthodoxy that I try to convey through my eyes instead of having to spit them out bloodied and sharp. I know it stings him enough just knowing, there's no need in heightening the pain by ripping it all open.

"Alright, I won't force you."

I'm not sure what is being hidden inside those words but I try not to think about it as I feel the eyes of Aiden upon me again. It's not affection or guilt he watches me with, it's a mixture of emotions I'm not familiar with and therefore can't locate.

It tickles me the wrong way.

His eyes finally leave me though, when I hear the door slam behind me and I'm suddenly outside of the building, leaning my right shoulder blade on the wall before the back of my head soon follows suit.  
I squint as I watch the outlines of the buildings before me, the shadows lengthening with each minute that passes. The wind is making more noise than usual and it's drowning out the cries of warning that should have reached my ears when footsteps find their way toward me. But I already knew they would come.

"Long time, no see."

Although I recognize the voice – devoid of the seductive tone he used on Spencer – I still have to cast a glance toward him to make sure it really is him. Just to make sure my replies are thrown to the right person.

"Yeah."

Although they're not much of any replies.

"You've been missing."

"No, I've been around. Just not here."

I don't know what else to say to him, if he expects me to spew out some excuse for not mingling in his presence or if he's content with what I'm saying as long as I'm saying anything at all.

"Any particular reason for that?"

I know what he's fishing for, I know what he wants me to say, how he wants me to react, because his smug face and composure – much like a snake in grass – tells me that he's asking me deliberately, he's asking me for a cause; to rile me up. It is all he's ever done.

"Not any I feel like telling you about."

And we both turn silent. Head and eyes hanging low on my shoulders ever since I recognized him has left me gazing at the ground, watching his bruised and battered shoes with a passion I didn't know I owned. His left shoelace loose from it's knot annoys me like no other and the urge to stomp on his foot overflows me, scares me a little. How agitated someone I barely know has made me become. And I don't know if it's for the better or for the worse.

When I watch his hands folding in front of his chest, thumb grazing the palm of his hand with affection, I can't help but be reminded of a show not too long ago where I was nothing but a spectator, nothing but a fly on the wall in the presence of two with similar minds. And when he raises his voice again, it's not to me, it's not for me. I don't think it ever was.

"Hey, I didn't expect to see you here."

And that loathsome tone is back, that soft, devoted one that I've only ever heard him speak within the vicinity of a certain girl, and I'm afraid to look up, I'm scared shitless of who could be standing just feet away from me.

"Yeah, watching my brother salivate all over the girls isn't my favorite thing to do..."

And when I hear her, when my eyes look up to memorize those features that are already stored inside my mind I'm surprised to see her looking at me back, that she's not meeting the eyes of a traitor but instead the eyes of a coward. When her body is shifted in the fly's direction instead of the lion's.

"You never called me back", is heard from a distance and her lips aren't moving so I know it wasn't her words. I recognize them as Aiden's, and although I'm closer to him than to her, I can still barely hear his words because all I'm able to hear is the slow breathing of air inside her lungs. And I'm not sure if I'm hearing it with my ears or not, because I'm listening to her with my entire being. All I can do in her vicinity is listen.

Because I'm so afraid of missing something I should've heard.

"Nice observation", is all she throws at him, her eyes leaving my pleading ones for just a second before they find mine again, mine being glued to hers the whole time.

"Hey Ashley, I was looking for you."

"What?"

And when I hear it, I wonder who said it although I know the voice is mine, I could hear the words vibrating in the back of my throat but I can't remember uttering them, I can't remember thinking them. And I always think before I say anything.

"Uhm, for me?" I try to cover up, not sure what exactly I'm trying to hide. Other than what my whole body is screaming, what my whole mind is focused on.

"Yeah, mom told me to come pick you up, something about an appointment or something..."

"Appointment?"

And I know that reply wasn't from my throat because I do not own such a masculine voice, and I do not loathe my own voice with such a fiery passion as I do the voice that just uttered a word I myself was about to ask.

"Yeah, so I'll just wait here for you, or something..."

She wavers. She actually wavers, and I'm not sure what she's trying to tell me with her eyes but it distinctly looks like pleading, like the look I've wanted to throw in her direction over and over again but have never had the courage to do.

And although I'm not entirely sure what the look means, and although I'm scared of her and her reactions, I'm still more scared of her being out here, with him, alone. Because I'm no longer the spectator and I do not wish to become one again.

"Uhm, you could come inside and wait, tell Glen that I'm leaving for me?"

And she visibly looks relieved, she tips her foot onto her toes and the hands that has been stuck inside the pockets of her jeans almost slips out when her shoulders reach up around her neck and she somehow seems reluctant. Not to follow me but _when_ and _how_.

It's the first time I can visibly see myself in her.

"Okey."

Girls don't frequent the gym as much as guys do. Not this gym, anyway, and it give me space and room to be self-conscious on my own without the prying eyes of others upon my body. Sometimes I linger longer than I should inside the locker rooms, enjoying the peace but not fully being calm enough to revel in it. Because I know it won't last, I know that at any time someone can come cruising in those doors and it could be at any time of my clothes changing. Therefore, I always make the changing go by fast, not wanting anyone to catch me barely clothed by the benches or naked in the shower.

Sometimes I'm lucky, sometimes I'm not.

Sometimes I shower at home, sometimes I don't.

Sometimes I don't care about how I look when I leave the gym and sometimes I do.

Especially when a girl I'm rather fascinated by is waiting for me outside and I don't know what she's going to bring me to.

And I'm scared.

So when I shower, I somehow end up spending more time than I've ever done before, and when I shampoo my hair, I somehow end up doing it several times, and when I finally let the water stop on its own accord I'm procrastinating, prolonging the inevitable 'appointment' that Spencer talked about.

Nothing about the word 'appointment' brings forth good thoughts and expectations.

I know it's a coincidence, but when I wrap the blue towel around me I can't help but think back to that bathroom incident, that embarrassing meeting that turned out wonderful, that turned out blissful. And I can't help but feel completely alienated to his reaction of getting caught in a towel when I see two blue orbs boring into me from the doorway of the locker room.

"Oh, sorry, I was just wondering if you'd run out on me or something."

She smiles, much like I did after seeing Glen's cheeks rise in happiness that day in the bathroom, but her smile doesn't infect me like Glen's did. It rather shames me, that I'm being caught by her and feeling embarrassed when she's seen me undressed like this before. She's seen me in tank top and boy shorts – just as undressed as now – but that was before she enthralled me. That was before she became so much more than the hateful mystery she at first was, and somehow it feels more serious now, her seeing my naked limbs moist from the shower.  
It's irrational, the embarrassment, but it's there and I can do nothing about it. And she makes no move to help me get rid of it as she sits down on one of the benches, back leaning against the white wall of this poorly cleaned locker room.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure if she's doing this deliberately. Staying inside the locker room when I'm about to change. But the flustered look on her face when I reach out to find underwear inside my bag tells me otherwise.

She turns away.

I look at her, barely seeing the side of her face as I slide my underwear on while still having the towel neatly tucked around my body. I'm too scared to let it fall. Too unsure of Spencer's actions to trust her eyes to stay away.

Even when I have no reason to believe otherwise.

My eyes still linger on her when I'm reaching for my bra, conflicted as to how I'm going to make this work, how I'm going to get dressed without exposing myself.

Because this is exposure, even if she isn't watching, even if she can't see me.

And it is even more so when I see her eyes flinch my way, never on me but around me, giving her peripheral vision a full show of my awkward hands about to unknot the towel that used to emit good vibrations, not terror and nerves like it does right now.

I wish she would turn away.

I wish she would leave this room, this situation and let me dress in peace. Because the tension in my body multiplies with each passing moment and I almost shiver, I almost shake. And I'm afraid '_almost_' will become '_visibly_' and I'm not daring enough to let that happen.

My eyes leave her frame when her gaze travels dangerously close to mine, 'cause when they almost meet – my terrified eyes and her searching ones – they seem to mix, they seem to melt together in a unified expression that holds both our faces, stills our glance.

And we both flinch.

I cannot look at her anymore, I cannot cast my eyes toward her because I'm scared of what they'll do to me, I'm scared of what they might see. So I dress in silence, hands tugging on fabric the only sound present in this room, bra and knickers the only clothing blocking her from seeing me completely.

When I finally dare to cast my gaze away from the locker and in her direction again, I'm not sure if what I see is imagined or real. If her eyes traveling up my right leg is really doing that or if I'm just having visions. If her eyes really do stop when they reach my torso or if I'm just mistaking their focus. If her face really do blush when it scans over my upper body or if I'm just making it all up.

But when her eyes really do reach mine, I know.

Because I've never seen them more present before, as they bore into me in ways they shouldn't, in ways that tense and excite my body in all the good ways but scares and frightens my head in all the wrong ways.

And the distance seems to dissipate even though none of us stirs, even though none of us moves an inch. The room feels smaller than before and I'm sure I can touch her even though she's lockers away from me, even though she's far from arms reach of me.

She just seems closer to me, so much closer than before and I realize it's not in the physical way, it's not in a materialistic way at all.

Because this closeness that seems to envelope us in this locker room has nothing to do with physics because it isn't bound by that.

It's a closeness shared between us in the most intimate way, because we're sharing the same expression, we're sharing the same emotion.

She's carrying an look of surprise and fright so similar to mine that I almost believe they're the same.

And maybe they are.


	22. Off Beam

**Off beam**

_It doesn't take long before she leaves me, leaves my stare and my presence as her head whips around and stares aimlessly into the far wall, muttering words I don't need to hear to understand. Because she's walking away from me, her hand pressed onto the door handle but not for long, not for long because she's so fast out that door that I barely have time to comprehend what happened; even less that I'm standing here undressed, so incredibly undressed inside and out._

I feel moisture and pressure inside my shocked and confused eyes and I'm not sure if it's from the abandonment or from the sheer sensation of something so utterly unexpected happening. Because I know what I saw, for once i actually _**know**__ that the emotions behind her eyes weren't imagined, weren't just illusions of hope from my suddenly hopeful mind._

I should be thrilled, filled with enthusiasm, but what overwhelms me in this moment is fear, cold and naked fear much like my own body still standing motionless oogling the door of her departure. Because I'm not sure if I can handle things going my way. I'm not sure if I can handle my hopes and dreams taking form and becoming true, manifesting themselves in reality.

They beckon on me, those clothes that lie neatly folded on the bench beside me, and I'm not slow with complying to their call. Shirts and jeans are haphazardly being thrown over my frame and hiding me physically but never mentally. Because I'm so open, so incredibly open in the way my expression conveys every little speck of terror that runs inside me and through me.

I'm not sure I'm ready for this.

---

I've been hiding ever since. I've been hiding so deeply behind a colder face, a harder demeanor but I know she can sense it, I know it pours out of me, the real me, the real face that so desperately wants to make an appearance. But I'm holding it at bay, it's tipping at the edge but I'm holding it at bay.

It sounds more of an achievement if it wasn't for the fact that only 10 minutes have passed, only 10 minutes of being in her presence, sitting in her car waiting for her to bring me somewhere I so desperately don't want to be brought to. Because 'appointment' has never been a word that fills me with joy, rather it fills me with dread and anxiety in ways you wouldn't even imagine. I remember it first being uttered years ago, so many years ago that I can't even count them and I don't want to. I don't want to remember and store in my mind those awful memories of rejection and pitiful looks that has forever caged me in fright of unacceptance. I don't want to be sent back.

Spencer hasn't uttered a word since I entered the car, eyes focused on watching the road and scenery outside of this confined space we're currently sharing, a space I know she'd rather share with someone else, _anyone_ else.

There's so much conviction and determination in the way she scans her surroundings, the ones outside of this car and I almost don't believe her; I almost don't believe that that's where her mind and focus really lies. Because they are _too_ trained on the view outside, they are _too_ trained on not looking in my direction, and for the first time I see doubt and indecision in the way her eyes sometimes shake, her stoic face suddenly not appearing as harsh and cold as it has before.

And I wonder if it's always been this way.

If her eyes has always been shaking in uncertainty, if her cold expression has always seemed so fake and easy to see through, because the view is so oddly familiar. Maybe it's been there all along, that doubt and insecurity I now suddenly see lying behind that cold front of hers, because it's the same expression. It's the same front I saw etched into her features when I first met her, it's the same icy stare I've seen shot into me at various occasions and I'm starting to wonder if they've always been present, those emotions I suddenly see so clearly on her.

It feels like I'm finally seeing.

Finally taking my own glimpses into the mind of a stranger instead of waiting impatiently for her to give them to me.

And I'm so caught up in my watching that all other senses seem to escape me, seem to shut down in order for me to focus hundred percent on her and only her. So much that I barely hear the sound of her ring tone slowly increasing in its volume, incessantly vibrating in her pants.

I look at her expectantly, waiting for her to act but she doesn't seem to move, she doesn't seem to notice. Because no hands reach for the pocket, no eyes are cast toward the ringing object. I'm hesitant to inform her, unsure if she's ignoring the call or actually oblivious to it, but when I do, when I finally summon up the small ounce of courage that I have in me and notify her, she seems surprised. And then she seems annoyed, throwing me an icy glare that has somehow never felt warmer.

She's gripping her cell phone so tightly while she talks that I can see her knuckles turning white, voice bored and monotone as she's obviously talking to her mother, to Paula.

I hear words but I don't know their meaning because they're not what I'm focusing on, they're not what I'm trying to understand. I've been having a hard time only watching her blurry, sideways from my peripheral vision and I'm grateful for the chance to look at her, fully look at her as I hear my name being muttered from her lips giving me a feel of allowance to watch her.

The cackling of Paula's voice is the only thing heard as we're both listening, listening so intently but I'm not sure if anyone of us is listening to _her_, to Paula.

I know _I'm_ not.

Something shakes me out of it though, out of this mesmerized state she's put me under, something in the form of a word I have learnt to fear, learnt to be vary of. Because I am reminded of why I am here, why Spencer is driving me and what is waiting for me when we reach our destination. This 'appointment' that feels like so much more.

I've been holding my breath for awhile, never sure how long, and I'm unable to control the shaky breath that escapes me, that reveals everything I've been trying so hard to keep at bay. She clicks her phone shut mere seconds later and I hope, I hope against hope that it was drowned, that my shaky breath was muffled by the sound of her phone clicking shut.

I am never that lucky.

Icy blue eyes glance toward me and although I'm no longer watching her I still feel them on me, I still feel their cold stare leaving warm trails on my skin. Because everything about her seems to warm me.

I'm losing my confidence in being able to read her as every minute passes, and the way she's staring me down from beside me increases the doubt that fills me slowly but so surely. I'm no longer in control, losing the battle between us before it had even begun, and I'm starting to imagine that it's all in my mind again, that it's all in my hopes and dreams and never facts of reality. So when her hand twitches on the gearshift I'm not sure if it really happened or what it meant, I'm not sure if her lips really parted, if the language I'm interpreting her with is the right one or if I'm just lost in translation.

Nothing happens though, and I try to forget, I try to throw away the memory of a hand laced with promises and a stare crumbling over a dilemma I'm not sure what was about. Because I don't want it to taint my thoughts later like I know it will, and I don't want it to spin ideas and hopes into a mind that does nothing else.

It feels like forever has passed, and when we arrive, when we reach this destination of dread I want forever to last longer, I want awkwardness and icy stares to never stop occurring, anything to prolong or rescue me from the inevitable, from this appointment that I know nothing about. That I honestly have no right to loathe as fiercely as I am.

The building in front of me stands tall and white before us, the car running silently telling me I'm supposed to walk out, I'm supposed to leave it and let Spencer go. But I'm not ready for any of them.

I'm afraid to look at her, afraid of seeing her eyes demanding me to let go of her time, let go of this death grip I have on the seat beneath me. So I look ahead, barely seeing the same action mirrored to my left where she's choking the steering wheel, jaw set and protruding, eyes cast to the building in front of us.

I'm not sure how many moments pass, but when I make no move to leave I see her hair whipping into my vision, her head turning left and away from me, words suddenly invading this pit of awkwardness we're drowning in.

"Look, it's nothing to be afraid of, okey, mom just wants you to 'talk about your past' or something..."

It is said with an edge, with a forced boredom in it and her eyes seem to tread involuntarily into my direction before being thrown harshly away from me and back out the window of this car. It is not the words or the way they are delivered that takes me by surprise though, it is the astonishment that she said something at all, that she actually _said_ something.

"Talk about my past?"

"Yeah, you know, spill out every traumatic event that's happened to you. Mom's inside waiting for you."

She's faking it well, the bored tone in her voice and face, and I'm starting to doubt that it's fake at all. Maybe I've been overanalyzing her, maybe I've been putting too much into her actions and words, maybe I haven't seen anything at all. I'm starting to doubt everything but I still can't stop the objection her sentence pushes forth in me.

"But I-..:"

But she stops it for me, she stops it with a sentence laced with venom and contempt.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that."

"Telling myself what?"

And she faces me, body and eyes shifting in my direction as she spits out the words that make it sound like she knows me, like she knows me better than myself. And we both know she doesn't. We both know neither understands.

"That you don't need to talk about it. Because you obviously do."

As if her sentences doesn't hit me hard enough, she multiplies the blow by shooting her eyes right into my own, sawing themselves into me and forcing me to close mine, close my eyes from the attack that stuns me, backstabs me. And I do the only thing I want to, the only thing that feels _right_ to do. I open my eyes and shoot back.

"I'm obviously not the only one."

It's too late to take it back when it's already been voiced and I'm not sure If I want to. If I want to take it back, because I've never seen her so shocked before, I've never seen her eyes blaze over in the way they do right now. She seems speechless and I'm grateful, I'm so grateful because I don't have any comeback to a possible counterattack. So I take this as my cue, my time to leave this car and this situation.

I rip my eyes away from hers as I slowly open the door and step a foot out, moving my body forward to fully get out but not before feeling fingers harshly slipping around my upper arm, forcing their nails into my skin and making me wince as I fall backwards into the seat. The hand never releases its hold on me.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Lips part but no sound escapes me, eyes dart around but they never fall on her. I didn't expect this; I didn't expect anything because I didn't plan for this to happen, for these words to be uttered from any of us. So I offer her the only reply I'm able to as I mutter a weak and powerless "nothing" in her direction and I pray that it's enough, that she will let it go, let _me_ go.

"You don't know anything about me."

There's only one part of her touching me, only her hand pressing into my upper arm but it still feels like she's holding me in other places, it still feels like a hand cups my chin and forces me to face her because however much I try to not turn my head in her direction I can't help but do it; face her. Look at her.  
I almost wish I saw anger written across her features because the odd mix of paranoia and terror that plays out across them makes me wish I kept my mouth shut, makes my pained mind choke on regret.

And she lets go.

---


	23. Beyond the Pale

**Beyond the Pale**

Building tall and doors heavy don't seem to phase me as much anymore.

Because somehow, the empty space behind me feels more important than any appointment could ever be, and her leaving seems more monumental than I'd want it to be.

I don't need to look behind me to know she's gone, I don't need to hear the silence of a car nowhere in sight to know she left faster than what is good for my heart and soul. Because I feel the emptiness deep in my bones and the taste that is left on my tongue seems both bitter and sad. So incredibly sad.

I'm trying to hold my head high, I'm trying so hard but all it does is drain what little strength I have left, and as I push the heavy door away from me all I notice is how my body just seems to wanna fall into it, surrender to its power and superiority. Accept defeat because I don't remember any reason to fight back anymore.

I hear her before I see her, Paula rushing up to me and stalling, freezing unnaturally to her spot as she takes in my frame and decides not to envelope me in a hug after all. And it almost pains me to admit that I'm grateful. Grateful at not having someone close to me, trying desperately to project warmth into me when all it does is steal my strength and stimulate my frustration.

"Ashley, there you are. I'm sorry I didn't warn you before, it's just that I got a last minute appointment here. I meant to talk to you about it, but I hope it's okay that I went ahead and made you an appointment."

She smiles reassuringly at me but it does nothing to comfort me, it does nothing to stop the eerie silence that seems to have settled deep in my core.

I follow her to where she was previously sitting and just now notice the magazine pressed firmly together in her hand, knuckles turning white with its pressure. It seems unnecessary though, the force of her grip and I wonder if there's something else she desperately tries to grasp, something other than what's already in her hand.

"There's nothing to worry about, I just want you to talk to someone, you know, someone outside the family."

Lips and lines are formed to show me she means all well and I believe her. I don't question its authenticity because I know it's real, I know the warmth in her eyes only wants what is best for me. And that's when the guilt seeps into that emptiness that earlier inhabited me, that froze me in a stoic mind and helped me wallow in my own puddle of pity. Pity I know I don't deserve, not even from myself.

"Uhm, okay. I just-... I'm not sure why though? Have I done something wrong?"

"Oh no, not at all...! I just thought it might be good for you to talk to someone, you know, so you can talk about anything. I know it's not always easy to talk to those you live with."

Her smile widens more than it usually does and I know it's from effort, it's from trying to reassure me and somehow it makes me smile. Somehow, it makes me smile back at her even if I'm still not assured.

"Okey..."

She stands up from her spot on the edge of her seat and she turns to face me full on, watching me more closely than what I'm comfortable with.

But I wouldn't be comfortable with anything right now.

She lets out a breath I'm not sure how to read before she reaches out a hand for me. One I'm not sure if I should take or not.

"I'll follow you up, Ashley, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised when meeting Dr. Johnson, she's a very respected therapist.

I'm not supposed to answer so I don't, I instead take the hand that is offered to me because I have no choice, I have no way out of this and it's time that I accept that.

I know she senses my discomfort, I know she can see my shoulders rigid, my hands shaky but I can't control it, I can't make it stop. She gently tugs on my hand before releasing it and making her way to the elevator, asking me silently to follow. And I do.

She's staring at me, been doing it for the last minute and I wish she would at least blink, at least look down at the notes on her lap once in awhile. But she doesn't. She instead bores her brown eyes into my flickering ones, not once taking my silent request to look some other way.

"I guess this came pretty sudden on you, didn't it?"

It's not penetrating, her gaze, it's more...searching, like she can't see inside of me yet and instead choosing to take her time getting to know me before reading my thoughts. And I'm grateful.

"Yeah, uhm-... y-yeah."

I wish it didn't shake, I wish my voice could be laid-back and not such a window into what I'm feeling right now but it is, it's a display of everything that defines both me and this situation.

"You don't need to worry, this whole appointment is all up to you, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

She smiles at me, eyes still hanging onto my own making me squirm slightly in this chair.

"Okay..."

And it's silent again, it's so silent that I can hear my own heartbeat pressing against my chest, constricting from this tension I'm putting it through.

She's not making any moves to talk to me, only sits there so patiently that I almost think she enjoys it. And maybe she does.

"So..."

I can't take the quietude, I can't handle hearing heartbeats beating in different patterns, mine so feverishly and fast and hers so calm and collected. It's just another reason to loathe this situation because we are not equals in this room, we are not sharing anything but the air we breathe and I'm so desperate for something to be said that I end up being the one saying something, even if it's just one word, one pathetic, unimportant word that does nothing but confirm how awkward this whole ordeal is.  
I don't know what more to say so I keep quiet for awhile, hoping she will say something, break the silent stare she's pinning me to this chair with. But she doesn't and I'm suddenly the one that has to make a move, that has to break this awkwardness and try to make it more comfortable. I've never been that person.  
I'm used to Glen doing something goofy to make me smile or saving me from tense conversations, I'm used to Arthur humming up a tune I always recognize and feel familiar with, I'm used to other people breaking the tension and maybe it's been wrong all along. Maybe I've only passed the job of making things comfortable onto someone else and never taken the effort to do it myself.

So maybe I deserve this, maybe I deserve being put into someone else's shoes, no longer depending on the efforts from those around me, but having to depend solely on myself.

Maybe I'm not ready for that.

"Uhm... So, I'm not sure what to say really," is all I manage to stumble together in my weak attempt to right my wrongs and eliminate the tension myself. I wish I could be proud for trying but I'm only disappointed at how weakly I executed it and the disappointment makes me throw my eyes onto the floor, away from the prying eyes in front of me.

"You can tell me anything you want to," slides out of her so effortlessly and smoothly that I know for a fact she's said it plenty of times before, not making me the least bit more comfortable in this situation. But she's only doing her job and I could never really blame her for that.

"Hmm... Uhm, you couldn't, I don't know, help me some?"

There is such a naked pleading in the way I am uttering there words and to anyone else it would seem weak, pathetic.

But for once, I feel oddly proud. Because I asked for ihelp/i, I actually asked instead of implying like I've always done, just skirting around the topic but never actually outright asking for help on what to talk about.

"Sure, but only if you promise to answer truthfully."

I've never seen myself as dishonest or a liar. But as this gentle request is being made, as she asks me something so mundane as being truthful I realize that I'm having huge problems promising such a thing. And it hits me so sudden and so unexpected that all I've ever been have been dishonest and it squeezed my heart at all the wrong angles, the realization of how I've always been this way. Untruthful.

So I take a leap, possibly the first ihonest/i one.

"I don't know if I can."

She's still watching me, still locking her eyes with mine but they're still not inside me, still just skimming on the surface. And I wonder if she's even aware of it. That she can't see inside me, or if she actually thinks she can.

I haven't decided how I feel about that yet.

"I see..."

That's all she utters, this woman sitting opposite of me, and I wish this was all over, I wish this whole appointment would just up and leave and I would magically find myself somewhere else, somewhere so far from this place that I couldn't even imagine it anymore.

I take a quick glance toward the clock on the far right wall and I hope that it's lying, I hope that it once stopped in the middle of the night and never started again, because if only ten minutes have passed then I'm sure the laws of physics have been broken. Because the clock inside my head says I've been here for days.

"Will you at least try for me?"

"What...?"

"To be honest?"

Only three words and I feel floored by them, by everything they imply and how much insight in imyself/i they give me.

And maybe that's been the goal all along. That she never tried to look inside because that was never the purpose. That it's all just a game to make me see inside myself.

This scares me almost more.

"Yeah, I'll try."

I'm not sure if the answer comes unexpected, but it takes awhile before she speaks again, as if searching for the right words, the right questions.

"What does it feel like when you enter a new family, Ashley?"

It's not like I haven't asked this question before, asked myself how much strain and dread such a move puts on me, but hearing someone else ask me about it somehow makes the answer seem more clear to me.

"It's uhm... It's so scary..."

I can't look at her as I tell her, I only glance down on my hands, cupping one of them with the other, tracing the lines inside my hand like I'm sitting here alone, like no one but myself is listening in on this. I don't know if I would've been able to be honest if something else was the case.

"It's like... It's like the whole world is judging you, watching you. It feels like all they're doing is looking for a reason to send you back. And they always seem to find something."

"Are you afraid the Carlin family will do the same?"

"I guess..."

"You guess?"

"I guess...well, I know. Yes."

She's looking at me more intently, I can feel her eyes shooting themselves on me more thoroughly than before even though I'm still not looking up at her, I'm still not ready to watch expressions play out on her face as I answer.

"Is there a reason they should want to send you back?"

My eyes shoot up faster than I reckoned for and I know I just showed her the answer, I know I just revealed myself although not iwhat/i. I'm momentarily paralyzed, deathly afraid that she can see inside my thoughts and see what lies within them, within me. But her curious eyes tell me she can't, she's not able to see the forbidden feelings I have toward someone I should never have gotten feelings for.

"Maybe..." escapes my lips before I'm fast enough to censor it and I already regret saying it as Dr. Johnson's curiosity seems to peak.

"And what may this be?"

She almost seems surprised by her own question, like her nosiness overtook her suaveness and made her ask me something she hadn't intended to.

I can't look at her anymore, I can't watch her try to figure me out so I utter a "no, there's nothing, really. I don't know," before standing up awkwardly and pointing at the door.

"Can I...use the restroom just quick? Please?"

"We don't need to talk more today, Ashley, but I'd feel honored if you want to come back and talk to me again. You seem like a good kid."

She smiles knowingly, perfectly aware that I had no intentions of continuing this session and I'm grateful that she's making this easier for me.

I nod her goodbye.

The air seems chillier when I step out of the building and I can't help but drag my sleeves around my hands before crossing my arms around my body. I feel vulnerable, exposed and out here in the open I'm not sure what to make of myself. I'm half an hour earlier than I should have been and there's no one around that I recognize. Paula has disappeared and I feel queasy at the prospect of her just leaving, just... leaving me here alone.

There's an empty spot of grass to the right of the building and although I should probably stay inside, hide from the wind that seems to blow harder and more menacingly, I feel an urge to sit down on it, sit down on the grass that seems so lonely and innocent without any trees or bushes around to keep it company. And when I do sit down, I cross my legs and splay my fingers out onto the grass, feeling it tickle the insides of my hands, silently rustling in the wind.

The grass feels rugged between my fingertips as I pick on it subconsciously, now and then watching the green material fall from my grasp, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not. It's been 45 minutes since I sat down here and I know I'm not supposed to still be here, I know I should have been somewhere else by now but I'm not. The eerie feeling settled into me 20 minutes ago but it's getting less and less painful to realize that I've been forgotten, that I've been left out. There's a numbness taking over the previous hurt and all I now feel is resignation.

The wind seems to distract me more than I want it to as it blows my unruly hair away from the side of my neck and into my mouth and line of vision. But somehow it's a welcomes distraction, because it is only in these moments that I forget that I'm here alone, God knows for how long or if it's ever going to pass. This loneliness.

The harsh breeze isn't the only sound present as I can distantly hear cars and children and noises I can't place all around me, but they are muffled by the noise of the wind in my ears. And this is why I can barely hear a voice in the distance, one I've heard plenty of times before but have always tried to ignore.

"Girl, are you blind? Get over here!"

I reluctantly tip my head sideways in a direction I hope is the right one and it is, because I can see a Latina with her sunglasses slightly tipped down motioning for me to come over with the tip of her finger.

And she's not the only one there.

On the driver's side of the car sits a girl I never thought I'd be relieved to see but I am, I'm so relieved that I throw the grass in my hand in an unknown direction as I climb myself up from the grass and hurriedly walk in their direction. Letting out a thankful breath I deep down knew I had inside me.

"Get in the back, do not for once think you're riding shotgun."

She's still the only one talking, Madison, but it's a common occurrence to hear her and only her and it doesn't bother me that much right now. Because she's making this less awkward.

"Spencer, did you see how Dan was looking at you today? He's sooo in love with you."

For once I'm actually listening to Madison and when she mentions a guy's name I can't help but look her way, look onto the narrow angle of Spencer's face, the only angle I'm privy to from the confinements of the backseat.  
I know I shouldn't, I know I'm still not allowed but I can't help but gaze at her, both from the pleasure of it and how desperately I want to know what she's thinking.

There's been no acknowledgment of the earlier car ride, no mean stares thrown like spears in my direction, no shouting from Madison of how rude I was toward her best friend, nothing at all.

"You're just exaggerating Mads, I'm sure he was watching you the same way..."

"Oh, don't try to use that modest tone Spence, it totally doesn't suit you."

And all I can think is how perfectly it idoes/i suit her, how much more appealing she is when she's acting more self-conscious and nice instead of the bitch with the mean-streak like she usually does.

"I'm not acting modest, okay? I'm just stating the truth and it wouldn't matter anyway. I'm not interested."

I'm still watching her, trying to gauge her facial expressions from the narrow angle I'm watching her from. Not once have my eyes strayed away from her and onto Madison because Madison's got nothing on the girl in my view. I hate to admit no one does.

"Didn't you make out with him once?"

I've got no right to feel hurt at the words but it hasn't gotten easier, hearing about her and her conquests. Although I've gotten used to it, it doesn't reduce the ache inside me whenever I hear about it, whenever I think about her with someone else, if possible it's only gotten worse. So much worse.

"What? No, I'd never make out with him, not even if I was dead drunk."

Having momentarily ripped my eyes away from her, my eyes find her frame once again and I'm shocked to see I'm not the only one watching. There's another pair of eyes looking somewhere and they're an impossible shade of blue, angled up into the rearview mirror and she's watching ime/i.

She's watching me.

She's catching me stare at her and I wonder if she saw me before also, brushing my eyes over her forehead and down her nose, lingering on her lips longer than I should have and trailing up her jawline before casting my eyes away. The look in her eyes doesn't tell me anything I understand though, and she doesn't give me the possibility to read them either. Because her eyes are no longer on me and instead back on focusing on the road ahead of us.

While I'm still lingering in the now.

"I know who you'd like to kiss though..." is heard saucily uttered to the right, Madison having been thankfully oblivious to the tense awkwardness between me and Spencer. Or possibly, between me and just...my imagination.

"Shut up, Mads."

The playfulness still lingers in Madison's eyes but she doesn't probe further, leaving both me and the conversation at a place both of us didn't want to be left at.

I'm watching between them, trying to understand their silent conversation, the one taking place in this instant, but that I'm not privy to hear. A conversation I'm dying to hear. They're whole demeanors are so different in this car, Madison slumped into her seat watching out the opened window with her elbow gently laid on the windowsill, seemingly happy and care free.

Spencer, on the other hand, seems uncomfortable and out of her skin, shoulders rigid and her back barely touching the back of the seat, both hands holding onto the steering wheel. She seems even more uncomfortable than me and i feel for her, I wish I could do something to make her feel more at place.

The problem is, I think I'm the reason for it all.

"You're up for that party on Friday, though?"

Her knuckles seem to relax a fraction, shoulders slumping a wee bit down and she seems to welcome the change in conversation.

"Sure, it's not like I've got anything else to do."

"Sweet!"

"But if you set me up with Dan, I'm going to kill you, okay?"

Madison laughs lightly before taking off her sunglasses and looking up at the sky through the open window. The wind seems to appear again as she mumbles out something that will haunt my sleep tonight and cloud my thoughts and make me damn my hearing because I can't quite hear what she's saying, the wind stealing half the strength of her voice as it slides into the car at the worst possible moment.

Because I will never know if she really uttered the sentence I think I heard:

"How about his sister?"


	24. Far be it From me

**Far be it from me**

They won't go away, these words and these thoughts and these endless speculations that fill my every waking moment from then and till now.

Then and now.

Then, when I was uncomfortable and awkward and all the things I still am, but I wasn't this torn then. I wasn't this confused. Because between _then_ and _now_ something happened to make everything more confusing and surreal, something so small and seemingly unimportant but to me it changes _everything_.

The voice might have been altered in my head but the words haven't. Although they were muffled, barely there and possibly imagined, I'm still hearing them echo over and over inside of me. Countless times being repeated, analyzed, thought over and I'm still getting nowhere, still only speculating over their meaning, over their authenticity.

I almost wish I hadn't heard it, I almost wish the words were never thought, never uttered.

But only almost.

Because although they haunt me, wake me, chill me, shake me, they still mean something to me, something I'm not sure I'm ready for. Something I never knew I _had_ to be ready for.

Maybe if she had given me something, anything to prove what I thought I heard then maybe I would've been more enlightened, more at peace. But she didn't. When Madison's words got stolen by the wind outside, Spencer never answered, never acknowledged that anything had been said. And as I hopelessly watched her from the rearview mirror I prayed for some sort of answer in her eyes, some glimpse of it being true or not, but all she gave me was nothing.

And it's been so long since then, it's been such long days of trying to understand, trying to find an answer, a hint, but still nothing.

"Ash?"

I hear him, I really do but I'm not sure I want to, I'm not sure if I'm ready to break these thoughts I've been swimming helplessly in for days.

"Are you under there?"

I want to answer that I'm not because I'm really not, I'm anywhere but here, anywhere but in this reality and instead so far into my own that I can barely hear him, barely feel the blanket I've got securely tucked around me and over me.

He won't let me stay here though, he won't let me stay in this cocoon of safety that I've hidden under in my room ever since I got home from school, because he drags the blanket off of me and onto the bottom of my bed.

"Ashley, stop hiding from me, you've been moping around in your room all week...!"

He's not right in what he's saying, it hasn't even been a whole week since the car ride that seemed to change everything and nothing at the same time for me.

I can hear him sigh and instead of looking up at him I imagine how he looks. I imagine his shoulders slumped, his eyebrows knitted in confusion as he shuffles out of my room wondering what he did wrong. Wondering why I'm being this way.

I wish I could tell him it's not his fault, it's not his making. But that would ask for me to explain why, why I've been avoiding them all, why I've been lurking inside my own head instead of opening up and being present in reality. And I don't know how to explain it. Because I'm not sure if there's anything to explain.

I hear them outside, Spencer asking Glen to hurry up and get out of here already. Glen grunting in response as he seats himself into the driver's seat and turns on the engine. A roar is heard in the distance as they drive further and further away from me and I wish my thoughts of them would too. Just slip out of my grasp just like their physical forms just did.

There's a sting of regret slipping into me when I realize that they're not here anymore, that they're somewhere else, living their lives, living it up as a teenager would. As a teenager _should want to_.

But I can't.

I can't go there and watch her, I can't see it before my own eyes that it might be true. That she might be like me.

Because what if I see her eyes linger too long on someone she shouldn't be looking at. What if I see her gaze trace up legs of friends I never thought she would ever look twice at. What if I see her touch someone in pretended innocence while her eyes tell something completely different.

What if I happen to catch her sharing the same guilty expression as I have after watching someone for longer than what is allowed and _still_ know that I have no chance. That she's _still_ so completely and utterly unattainable.

How could I ever handle that.

I couldn't.

Distant laughter and soft music filters through here, seeps into the room I haven't left for mental centuries, and I can't stop the sad smile from playing across my features, muscles subconsciously tugging at the corners of my lips without me having any chance to stop them. Because I know who they belong to, these laughs, and I know they are for real.

I've seen them dance before, the parents, and I remember the look in Paula's eyes as she tripped over her own feet and had Arthur save her from falling into the shelf she uses as a display of adoration. My picture used to be there. I'm trying to remember if it still is.

Closing my eyes in an attempt to unfog the mental image I have of them seems to work because I almost feel their smiles when another set of giggles reaches my ears.

I wish I had what they have. I wish I had only half, even just a fraction of what they share, but all hopes of such things seem hopeless.

Because I don't even have the right. It's been taken away from me by moral assumption and social disgrace, and I doubt it'll ever be given back to me.

They kiss cheeks, I'm sure, and backs of hands and secret pecks of lips because they know I'm in the house.

They dare a deeper kiss, I'm sure, guiltily throwing glances toward the hallway scared that I might barge in.

But it's all pretend. All of it is, because they're not really feeling guilty for sharing kisses in the dark, they're not really all that scared that I might see their display of affection.

And they don't need to be. They have all the acceptance in the world to act as they do, and it pains me to know I'll never have that.

The same chorus of "of course you can!" that everyone has to act on their feelings.

And this is why I almost hope none of it is true. None of the thoughts and speculations and selfish hopes I've ever had of Spencer being like me, being gay.

Because for some reason, I think it would pain her more.

I don't have nearly half as much to lose.

They are silent now, if it's for real or just doors and walls silencing the sound I really don't need to know. I'm just content with no longer having to think envious thoughts of their obvious night of romance.

I've been reading for awhile, just paragraphs and lines that has failed to gain my interest and my mind has gone numb from all the thinking, exhausted from all the strain.

And now I'm just present. Just here, not thrown around into sharp edges by my adulterating mind, the one who swears to help me but does nothing of the sort.

I'm so thankful for the break. I'm so grateful for no longer imagining Spencer's voice in my head saying good things and bad things and all in between.

I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to be there.

Stuck inside my head.

So when she edges her way back into it I try my best to ignore her, ignore her distant calls of seduction and despair that seems to come in alternate succession, and I'm starting to realize maybe _I_ don't want her there anymore.

Maybe _I'm_ the one who has to let go.

And I realize I have no other choice.

But let go.

I wasn't holding onto anything but an illusion anyway.

She's still here. Still more present than ever and I know it's not that easy, it's never that easy to get rid of something that's been stuck inside your head for so long. Because you don't know what else to occupy your mind with. You don't know what else to think of.

I've been trying to come up with things to take her away, to remove her from the throne she's got in the middle of my mind but she's stoic. Frozen in her spot. It shouldn't surprise me though, and it doesn't because it's still Friday night, it's still  
the night of my decision and nothing is that easy. Especially not when it's been this hard.

I've been sitting on the porch for an hour now, it's cold and breezy tonight and I'm not wearing more than my Pjs. I don't need to. There's no one else around.

I don't think much of it when I hear footsteps on the street ahead of me, neither do I give them any attention. I can't help but hear them though, as they trudge in defeat toward something I don't want to mull over because I'm not interested in them. I just don't want the person to stop and talk to me.

My eyes stay glued to the driveway, avoiding any communication with this fellow being who strolls along the empty streets on a cloudy night. And then they stop. The footsteps.

I could always pretend I don't know who is in front of me, I could always avoid and go away and just leave this situation and this person who's now undoubtedly watching me, but it burns, this gaze I'm privy to. It hurts.

And there's not a question in my mind asking me who this is. There's no inner monologue discussing the identity of this stranger before me. Because I haven't been able to get this stranger out of my head all night.

"Hey..."

I still haven't looked up, afraid of looking at her and getting thrown into the whirlwind of confusion she always pushes me into, but I hear her clearly, so much more clearly than what is expected because she doesn't say it, doesn't voice it out. She merely whispers.

Unable to watch the ground in front of me anymore I shift my gaze but not at her, never in her direction. My elbows have been resting lightly on my knees where I'm sitting on the steps not far from the ground beneath me, but I have to let one arm fall down as I turn my head to the side, away from my own shadow projected onto the driveway. I don't need to be reminded of where I am. I'm perfectly aware.

She's not watching me anymore.

It doesn't burn anymore, my skin. Instead it's my chest that takes over the pain my skin previously wallowed in because I hear something so unexpected and heartbreaking that I can't help but look up at her, neck reluctant but ears registering something I'm not able to resist.

Because I just heard someone sniff. I just heard someone swallow loudly and when my gaze lands on her, when my eyes take in her features I realize it wasn't just my imagination. It wasn't just my mind playing games with me.

Instincts must have kicked in because it's barely seconds before I'm up and off the porch, the tip of one foot still lightly touching the last step, suddenly frozen in spot when I realize I don't know what I was about to do, don't know what I'm _supposed _to do. So I just stand there, awkwardly stoic with a composure that tells all and nothing. Drive and reluctance. The latter always wins.

Her fingers press against her forehead, palm lightly touching her left cheek as she tries to stop crying, stop showing these emotions I'm sure she hates herself for having. And then she stumbles forward, just a few steps and they are rugged, uneven and nowhere near sober, these steps she's treading. Her body hangs uncomfortably upon her feet where she's swaying lightly in intoxication, feet making small sounds on the ground beneath her. And then she starts walking.  
Not really toward me because she's not looking at me anymore, hasn't been doing so ever since she looked away from me. Still, she's walking in my direction, lightly to the right of me before she clumsily sits down on the edge of the stairs as far away from me as possible.

Maybe she wants me to leave.  
I'm not going to though, because I am so intrigued, so curious as to what has made her this way, made her weak and crying.

I'm still watching her, still taking her in so completely and openly. I shouldn't be watching her like this. I shouldn't be obviously staring at her, eyes sometimes tracing over her features in such an appreciate way before I catch myself doing so and stop. Because I'm sure she can sense me. I'm sure her gaze isn't the only one that burns.

"Are you alright?"

It's such a stupid question, laced with such naivety and helplessness because ofcourse she's not alright. She wouldn't be crying if she was. It doesn't stop her from answering just as dishonestly though.

"Yeah."

One word that could mean so much, one word that could be the start of so many sentences, but she doesn't continue. Doesn't elaborate. Only leaves me hanging with an answer I'm not sure how to interpret because it could mean so many things. "Let me alone, I don't want to talk about it", or "I'm fine, just being emotional" or the one I have a feeling is the right one because although I can't see them, I know her eyes are pleading "please pretend to believe me".

I won't pretend though.

"Did something happen?"

And I am thrown back to a time it was me standing on this porch crying, a time when she comforted me and I want to repay her that, I want to give something back. I'm just not sure how.

Her face leaves the confinements of her palms where it's been residing in and she  
looks toward me, eyes shining with unshed tears, cheeks marking the trails of shed ones. Then she exhales, not loudly but loud enough for it to have a different meaning than just breathing out. I'm afraid it's because I've pushed her too far.

"I just-..."

She stops looking at me, casts her gaze slightly to my side knowing I'm still easy to see in her peripheral view. For some reason, it doesn't make me uncomfortable, because she hasn't left yet, hasn't shown any acknowledgment of my evident staring and the way her eyes seem to linger not too far away from me sooths my fears slightly, knowing she's not appalled at seeing me.

"They're just so wrong, you know, they think they know everything about me and they-... They're so wrong, I'm not-.."

The sentence is left hanging there, making me desperate to hear the rest, wanting to understand this, understand her. But as she breaks down right beside me, face seeking comfort in her palms once again I cannot get mad at her for not completing her sentence, for not telling me what I need to hear. Instead, I shift my gaze slightly away from her like she did earlier with me, shyly looking back at her now and then as I silently and almost secretly move closer towards her.

I know she notices.

I know, because I sense her shoulders tensing, her breathing altering and as I stop my slow movements of getting nearer to her, she looks up at me with such sad eyes, such a fragile frame that I can feel a lump building in the back of my throat even how much I try to swallow it down. It won't disappear.

Both sets of eyes lower down as I follow her eyes on their descend down to my hand who lays gingerly on steps beside me, nervously gripping onto it unsure if I should push myself closer to her or let her be.

She takes the last step for me.

Momentarily lifting her body up by her arms, she shifts closer to me, so close to me that our upper arms slightly graze one another. I don't gasp or shudder, at least not physically because my mind is reeling, so fast and so unintelligible that I have to concentrate to keep my head cold and not run away like the coward in me wants me to.

My chest hurts because it isn't used to this, my heart isn't used to such closeness, such warmth. It's so rapid I contemplate placing my hand over my heart in an attempt to still it, to slow it down.  
"You've heard them, haven't you?"

It takes me a moment before I realize she just asked me a question, one that I'm supposed to answer instead of just hear. I have no answer for her though, because I'm not sure what she's talking about and apparently she notices.

"The million rumors that is passed around about me."

"Uh, some."

How can I answer differently? I don't want to lie to her, but I don't want to be brutally honest with her either. She doesn't need to know I've heard more about her than anyone would want to, especially someone that takes all of them to heart. Carries them with them like it's a burden of their own, someone like me.

"They're so wrong, I swear they are, especially Madison who-..."

She stops and my ears listen, hoping she'll continue and not leave me hanging once again. It's possible I should be feeling guilty tonight, feeling sneaky for making her open up when she's obviously not in the same state of mine as me, but I can't let this chance escape me, I can't let this go unexplored. This might be my only chance to learn more of her.

Her hand hits her forehead as she groans loudly, hiding a whimper inside it as she drags her hand down her eyebrow and cheek, pulling the skin downwards with her. It's starting to take a toll on her, this emotional state of mind she's currently residing in and I wish it wasn't so, I wish she would be like this more often. More open.

Because my heart only seems to beat faster.

"I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, I was just drunk and... and she was there, I didn't mean to kiss her."

And then it stops.

I swear it does.

Because as much as it would kill me to see her do something like that, it kills me even more to hear her say it. Voice it out, manifesting it in a conversation I'm never going to get out of my head. That I know will get replayed over and over inside my head until it will drive me crazy and in the end kill me.

It starts beating again.

So slowly, I can barely feel it and I'm not sure I want to. Feel it beating against my chest again. And as my heart comes into rhythm again it starts escalating, pumping harder against my skin and I can't stop the movement this time, my hand lands on instinct over my heart.

And when I shift my face in her direction again, I understand why.

We're far from touching but it still feels like her skin is touching mine, heat building across my cheeks as they redden when she does touch me, when her fingers finally land on my jaw.

And they dance again.

The fingertips once again dances such a slow dance across my cheek as if their touch is too intimate to be real. And it is.

It's way too unreal this moment, this unrealistically tense moment I've been dreaming of but in different settings and in different states of minds. I never thought it would really happen. That's why I never really prepared myself for it.

I am so unprepared for this, so not ready to see what lies inside her eyes as she  
stares at me just as intensely as I've been staring at her. And I'm scared to see my own feelings reflected inside her eyes, unsure if what I'm seeing is right or if I'm imagining it.

Unsure if she really means to kiss me as she starts closing the gap between us, or if she meant to just embrace me and let her lips linger softly on my cheek after I turned me head away from her.

And I am mad.

So mad at myself for turning away from her, from stopping what might have happened, might have altered every perception I've ever had. Because what if she did mean to kiss me? What if she did mean to lock her eyes with mine and tell me revelations I've been dying to hear but am unable to handle.

Her lips are still lingering on my cheek.

Her fingers are still touching my skin, no longer moving after having stilled the moment she leaned in to me.

And then her arm surrounds me, embraces me while the fingers on the other starts traveling down my neck and behind it, holding me steady in her grasp as she hugs me awkwardly.

I don't hug her back.

This is so wrong, so incredibly wrong because what is happening right here shouldn't happen at all. She shouldn't be this close to me, shouldn't be so forthcoming when she's obviously and completely intoxicated and not herself. And I shouldn't let her.

"Spence-..." I try, not succeeding in having her stop her hold on me, instead only making her increase the grasp she has on the back of my shirt, holding me firmly in lock inside her embrace.

I want to break loose.

Not because I don't enjoy it but because I enjoy it too much and I know she's doing this because of something. Something called a bottle of vodka and a huge dose of teenage drama and I know she's only doing this because of these factors.

And when I think she's had enough, when I think it's going to stop – this embrace that makes my insides tingle and my heart beat painfully fast – she instead let her lips move across my cheek and closer to somewhere I'm not ready to have her, somewhere where I'm trying to form words but my lips don't want to comply to my command.

It's happening so fast but only mentally, because the path her lips seem to travel is done so agonizingly slow, with such pretended innocence that I'm not sure if this is going where I deep down know it is.

As the corner of my lips suddenly feel a pressure from someone else's lips, I'm no longer unsure of her intentions. I'm no longer pretending to believe their innocence because her breath mingles with mine and I'm afraid to breathe, afraid to let my own puffs of breath touch her skin in case it will break this spell we're both under, this moment none of us should go further into.

I know this shouldn't happen. I know it more than anything because this will only  
make things harder, only heighten the tension in this already tense household or it could possibly break it. Possibly break everything.

I don't notice the tears before I feel them descending down my cheeks, silently etching my guilt and fear into the skin she previously branded with soft lips.

I think she notices. Because she hesitates. She waits longer than she needs to because I haven't turned away. I would've turned away by now if I didn't want this too.

She knows I want this too.

I just wish it could be under different circumstances, in a world where we weren't supposed to be sisters, in a world we didn't have to think about other people's opinion's, in a world where I wasn't the only sober one.

But I am. And it is.

So when it happens, when my eyes closes much like her own as she leans closer to me, closer to where we both want to go but none of us should want to go, the tears fall harder. The tears stains my cheeks simultaneously as her lips meet mine before I even have time to wet them. But it isn't necessary because she does it for me not long after the first touch of her lips on mine.

She knows this is wrong too.  
I'm not sure how drunk she really is, but those shaking lips are not caused by alcohol, I'm sure of that. I'm sure it's caused by the same thing that causes my cheeks to imitate waterfalls, and I could always stop this, I could always lean away.

I just don't want to.

Especially when her tongue so shyly comes out to tiptoe over my bottom lip like she's afraid to put too much pressure on me, on us.

But it's already too much pressure.

Lips still lingering in pleasure we don't deepen anything, we don't move things further. Because I'm not kissing her back, not like she wants me to, not like I need to do. Maybe if the circumstances were different, maybe if she wasn't drunk and I wasn't sober, maybe then it would've escalated but I just can't. I can't tread into waters I'm sure to drown in when I know she won't be there to breathe life into me again.

Because there is a tomorrow.

There is a dawn after this night and somewhere along the night she is going to realize what she has done and how this could ruin everything.

This is why I let her lips remove themselves from mine because I know there will be consequences, I know there will be hell to pay for acting on these impulses none of us should have given in to.

Because although there might be a tomorrow for her and me,

there will never be a tomorrow for _us_.


	25. Same Boat

**Same Boat**

The mirror doesn't do me any good this morning. How I wish last night would've given me some sleep, any kind of sleep that would erase these tired lines and dark shadows that hang over me today. Somehow, today seems more important than any other day, filled with a certain expectation of something unknown, something that could possibly make everything different. Something in the form of a reaction, because there's bound to be reactions for what happened last night. Even if she chooses to ignore me.

i  
Arms retreat from around my shoulders, hands distance themselves from my cheeks and it feels lonely as they leave my skin. She takes one glance at me and then hides, hides in the confidements of her arms and knees, tucking her limbs around her. She looks so small beside me, smaller than I've ever seen her because although we're the same height, she's always been taller than me, taller in confidence and presence and suddenly now she's deflated into something completely different. Fragile, that's how she looks, and I'm afraid I'm the reason for her sudden transformation.  
I shouldn't feel anything but worried about her and guilty for making her this way, but there's a small part of me that is oddly fascinated by what is happening, her retreating like I usually do and me being the stronger one. It doesn't keep me from trying to make it better though.

"Spencer."

I can barely see the side of her face as she's got the palm of her hands over her eyes, hiding whatever emotions that are running through them, possibly out of them. But I do see her form shaking so lightly that only my complete attention gives me the ability to see it.

"You just don't get it, do you."

I wish I did, I really wish I did but how can I understand someone who refuses to let anyone in, refuses to let anything shine through from within and instead only emit indifference and coldness. So I tell her.

"No, I don't."

She sighs so heavily, breath shaking as she does so, and now I know she's crying, I know because I can hear her voice cracking ever so slightly, ever so unwillingly at her next words because she's trying to be strong, trying to hide what is already evident.

"I just-... I just really wish you did, you know?"

They echo inside me, these words she just uttered, but I can't seem to grasp their meaning however desperate I am to understand them. My eyes have still not left her and although I know it's a bad idea to let our eyes meet once again, I can't help the hand that suddenly lands on her shoulder, urging her to look at me.

"Then tell me."

She finally looks up, eyes barely watery but still noticable, and she looks at me so intensely that I stop breathing, I stop every movement I planned to make. I'm afraid any kind of interruption is going to spoil this, take away from me this moment I so desperately want to get out of at the same time as I never want it to end.

"I thought I just did."

And then she casts her gaze down, shrugs my hand off of her shoulder as she stands up and leaves me, leaves me with a sentence I wish she never said to me. A sentence I wish would say more and less at the same time because for once, for the first time since I met her, I finally think I understand.

/i

Her words still echo inside of me, over and over like a song that just won't leave you. They've been doing so ever since last night, robbing me of any chance of peace and solitude before this dreaded day started. And now it's too late for sleep.

If only my apprehension was because of how she might react, if only the tension I feel brooding in my body was of fright, if only the regret that surges through me was because of what I let happen. If only the thing haunting me every minute, every second of the day was something other than how I wish I'd just let her kiss me. How I wish I'd just kissed her back.

And when I finally see her in the hallway, walking past me with shoulders slumped and head hanging low all I can think of is how easy it would be to take a step to my right and stand before her, close to her and maybe touching her. And when she sits down beside me at the breakfast table, all I can think about is how little it would take to slip my hand through hers and place them on her thigh, gently squeezing to show how much she means to me.

And when she places her cutlery inside the dishwasher at the same time as me, I can't help but entertain the thought of how easy it would be to just turn my head and kiss her.

I've been thinking about it all day ever since I saw her for the first time this morning, when she stepped out of the bathroom with hair disarrayed and PJs still on. She merely looked at me, so hurriedly before she shuffled down the hallway towards her bedroom and as far away from me as possible.

That's all she did. Ignored me.

And I've been aching ever since, aching to see her, aching to talk to her, aching to be near her. She, on the other hand, seems to be on a completely different thought as she stops and turns away whenever she sees me in a room, so obviously avoiding me that I wonder if she means something by it. Means to make it obvious. Because there was a time she did avoidance perfectly and now it's anything but.

I know I did the right thing last night, I know I did what I had to but I can't help but resent my own actions, my own over-active conscience who robbed me of something I would've cherished forever, especially now when I see last night didn't have any major consequenses after all.

Glen didn't come home before this morning, sneaking into the house in the early hours but not fooling the creaks in the hallway hardwoodfloor as they squeaked when he walked past my bedroomdoor. I know he didn't fool the parents either, when they asked him where he'd been all night at the breakfast table this morning. Seeing him squirm in in seat, hungover and trying his best to hide it, should've put a smile to both mine and Spencer's face but as I felt the sides of my cheeks twitch upwards, I glanced ever so slightly in her direction and she didn't even seem to notice. She didn't even seem to be aware of a conversation going on around her.

I would lie if I told you it didn't wipe the smile off of my face in an instant.

And I've been watching her ever since, watching her when she didn't know I was nearby, studying her from afar as she seemed to nervously switch the channels on the television, sneaking glances at her as she walked aimlessly around the garden, whenever I had the chance to see her without her knowing. Because there's been a change this morning, a change in her face that I'm desperately trying to understand, to grasp just a lint of.

She seems more reserved suddenly, more vulnerable and I don't know if it's always been there or if I've just been blind to the signs before. Because when I ask Glen, ask him if he thinks his sister is acting differently he doesn't seem to understand me, he doesn't seem to see any change present in the house and although it confuses me I'm still glad. Still relieved to see that everything is not different. That the world didn't stop turning after last night.

And when I hear her voice flowing out from the entrancedoor, I'm worried that she might see me here, sitting on the swings in my own thoughts and reminiscing over earlier hours, earlier confessions.

"Dad, I'm going over to Madison's!"

But she doesn't see me, she doesn't even take a glimpse my way as she's out of the driveway and I'm conflicted as to which emotion I should hang on to, the relief of her not seeing me or the dissappointment that she didn't. I never get a chance to decide.

Hurried footsteps follow me across the lawn and I'm barely noticing them as my own, so caught up in what I'm doing that I don't have time to reflect on any reason or logic for why I'm following her. I just do. And when I reach up to her I'm still not sure as to why I'm doing this, walking alongside her when she obviously doesn't want me near her. Obviously with the way she closes her eyes in a split second before sighing in annoyance at my mere presence and looking at me pointedly.

"Why are you here?"

She stops suddenly, taking me by surprise as I have to walk a few steps back to be close to her again. But she only backs away.

"I-..."

And I'm lost for words, eyes desperately looking around me but never focusing on anything because I'm looking for my thoughts, looking for my reason to be here, following her when there's a reason she's leaving in the first place.

"Why are you following me if you don't have anything to say?"

"I don't know."

That's all I manage to get out, the only thought present in my head but at least it's truthful. Because I don't know at all.

She casts her gaze away, throwing it ahead of me, ahead of herself because I don't think she's focusing on anything right now, just lost in her own thoughts, in her own head. And then she smiles the saddest smile I've ever seen on her.

"I just don't get you, I thought I did but... I just don't. Not anymore."

Her words confuse me and I can't help but stare at her even more openly than before, urging her eyes to come back to mine, ever so slightly bending my head down so that she'll understand. Instead she throws them even further away from mine, sending them crashing to the ground, the ground between us that just seems to grow for every second we spend in silence. And then it diminishes, the space between but not in reality, not in the physical world. It's her eyes that seem to draw us closer together as they travel from my shoes and upwards, the path not much different from the one she travelled in the locker room ages ago but the meaning behind it so completely different that it shouldn't be possible to compare them.

Because the path she's travelling now isn't one of wonder, isn't one of confusion and appreciation, this time the path her eyes are digging into my skin is one of sadness, one of surrender. And when they meet mine she can't hold the connection longer than a second before she has to close them, close her eyes and clench her fists.

"Spencer..."

Her head turns away from me, jaw clenched like her fists and she's obviously upset, obviously angry with me. That's why I'm surprised when she doesn't turn away from me when I take a sheepish step forward, lessening the space between us. That's why I'm bewildered when she instead takes a subtle step toward me instead of running away from me. And when her hands suddenly comes in contact with my upper arm and collarbone I suddenly understand. Because she's pushing me away from her, pushing me hard and brutally but still taking steps toward me as I stumble backwards from the force of it. It doesn't hurt but even if it did, wouldn't have noticed right now because all I'm trying to do is stop her, stop these hands and arms that are only pushing me because she doesn't know what else to do, what else to say. And I don't blame her.

"Spencer, please stop. Spencer, stop."

They still push me, these hands that are clenched so fiercely, but instead of increasing their force they lessen, hands instead resting ever so slightly on my shoulders as she pushes me backwards on this pavement, and then they stop.

They stop, but they don't move away from me. They don't remove themselves from my shoulder. And it's in this moment I finally do what I know she wants me to do. What she needs me to do.

So I embrace her.


	26. Rough and Ready

Thanks everyone for being awesome and giving such great reviews. This one is crap, the other one will be more eventful and better hopefully )

**Rough and Ready**

Arms are pressed awkwardly against my shoulders.

Fingers are clenched tightly together making harsh fists out of usually soft hands.

But I'm still holding her, holding her so close to me, so close that even if her feet stop functioning she will still be held up by the arms I'm covering her with. She hasn't entirely stopped pushing me away yet, still struggling lightly in my arms but I'm not letting her go anywhere. I'm not letting her push me away.

Her hair is disarrayed by my head resting on her shoulder, cheek not touching hers but not far from it. No, they're so close with only a layer of her hair separating them, that it almost feels like we really are touching. Not just through layers of clothes and hair that separates us right now, but in a more intimate way, a more imental/i way. Silent shakes are emanating from her body as she's slowly stopping to resist my hold on her, and I'm grateful that she's finally letting go. Grateful that she's letting me be there for her.

This is such a surreal moment for the both of us, because our places haven't just changed; they've altered. I am not like this, I am not the one who comforts, takes care of people and initiates situations like this. I am so far from it, still I find myself in this setting, so very insecure about my own actions but ignoring them for the sake of a girl that has it worse.

I bet it's harder for her. Being the strong one, known to not be faced by anything, always the one with the upper hand and now suddenly she's anything but. Suddenly she's weak and powerless and depending on my arms to hold her weight up. I can't even begin to comprehend how difficult this is for her, as opposed to me. Because I only seem to be growing stronger.

There's no shaking anymore. No quiet action that hides the awkwardness that was doomed to occur, and now it's looming over us, the absence of comfort as we're starting to realize what kinda setting we're in. But she's still letting me hold her. Still letting us continue this embrace that is so foreign and surreal that I'm starting to doubt that it's really happening. The smell of her hair reminds me that it is.

A foot is stretched out, increasing her height as she's no longer depending on me to hold her up, but her arms have not removed themselves. Her fingers are still clenched into fists by my side. My arms are still around her waist and up her back. They've been like that for quite a while now, but it's only now that we're really starting to understand what kinda compromising position we're stuck in, let alone istill choose/i to be stuck in.

She sighs, so lightly that if it weren't for her breath softly stroking my neck as she does it, I wouldn't have noticed. But I do, I do notice the small change in our stoic embrace, one that has been completely still for several moments now. Not minutes, not hours, only seconds but still moments that hold a lifetime inside them. How could they not when I've got my complete obsession so close to me and in such a weird situation. Then it happens. The thing I've been waiting for but hoping would never come, her arms and fingers releasing their pressure and retracting, hauling themselves away from me while I'm reluctant to let her do so. My reluctance shown in the way I let my hands grace her back and waist as we're parting, never just letting the touch disappear but keeping the connection as long as possible. Finally letting them rest on her hips.

Her eyes won't meet mine however much I try to capture them, her head tipped forward and a hand coming up to touch the wet rim of one. I already knew she'd been crying, the silent shakes a traitor to her vocal silence but she wouldn't have fooled me anyway. Not anymore.

"I'm sorry", is muttered chokingly from the depths of her throat, a polite cough following it right after. There's no tears filling the brim of her eyes anymore but the traces are still noticeable and I can't stop the hand of mine that starts to draw closer to it, closer to the paths of her inner struggles that are painted across her cheeks. She never lets it get far enough to actually touch it.

"I've got to go, Madison's waiting."

She hovers momentarily, one hand of mine still holding onto her, holding us close but she removes it with a warm hand clasping ever so gently around my wrist and when it's no longer on her, she lets it go. Lets my hand go and lets ime/i go as she walks past me and further down the sidewalk, further away from awkwardness and painful tension and further away from what ultimately seems to cause it all: Me.

--

There are sheets over limbs and pillows over a head but none of it belongs to me. None of it is even close to looking like me. The hairy legs are bruised and pale, blond locks escaping the sea of linens that covers this poor guy who suffers a hangover he will soon forget he ever had. And as I snap his leg painfully I hope he will forget that as hurriedly as he'll forget that hangover of his.

"Glen?"

He only grumbles into the mattress, words that are not supposed to have meaning and it's obvious he doesn't want the intrusion. But already on a high from earlier boasts of strength, I'm telling myself it's the hangover talking and deep down I know he's happy I'm taking initiative, that I'm finally coming to him.

"Gleeeen, stop hiding under your sheets!" I try as I lightly push at his side, still feeling slightly guilty for snapping him in such a fragile state. And as the words hit me, I can't help but sneakily insert a "That's my job", before I hear him snickering into the mattress, head shaking slightly at the vibrations.

His head appears from under the pillow, eyes squinting from the light pouring in from the door I left open, not wanting to hurt him by putting on the lights in his room.

"Hey."

"Hey. How was last night?"

It seems so innocent, this question, and I wish I could tell you it was but it's not. It's not innocent at all because it's laced with an agenda, with a hidden meaning because it's not ihis/i night I'm curious about.

"Ah, it was alright. Lots of drinks, lots of people, lots of stupidity."

He's starting to get used to the small streak of light coming into the room, and as he lets his eyes go from squinting and to become fully open, he looks over at me, still laying on his stomach securely covered in his blue sheets.

"You should have been there."

A smile appears on my face and it's genuine, it's purely genuine because he hasn't stopped trying to include me, he hasn't stopped caring. I hope he never will.

"Yeah, maybe."

He perks up, seeing an opening I didn't know I was giving, and as his next words are voiced, I'm not sure how to answer.

"Does that mean you'll come to the next one?"

"I don't know."

Thankfully he doesn't press on, and in case he's about to say something else I'm not ready for, I shoot in with something else.

"So, where did you sleep last night?"

I'm smirking, not even trying to hide the teasing in my voice. His head is buried back into the mattress, pillow back over his head as he groans more gibberish into nothingness, and I press on because I know he likes it. I know he secretly wants me to.

"So, who is she? Is she nice? She better be nice...!"

He stops his hold on the pillow over his head but still lets it rest there, covering him and the expressions he might be making.

"Who says I went home with a girl?"

"Well, was it a boy...?" I tease, not thinking about my own situation before it's already voiced, and the topic of how he's going to react and how it could possibly affect me doesn't hit me before it's too late.

"No, it wasn't a boy..!!" is shouted from him as he throws the pillow away from his face and looks up at me. I'm waiting for him to say more, cover his response with degrading comments I know isn't directed at me intentionally but will still affect me. But nothing more is said.

"So it was a girl then?"

He rolls his eyes gently, probably in fear of increasing his self-inflicted headache even more. Back is raised from the mattress and he's no longer looking up at me but instead looking straight at me. It makes me less powerful somehow, less forward when he's no longer laying there defeated but instead sitting there, looking straight at me just as powerful.

"Yeah, it was a girl."

I smile at him, smile reaching my eyes but with the way he's looking intently into mine, I think he's searching for a flicker, for a hint of me not being happy that he's found someone.

"That's great, Glen. Do I know who it is?"

Still staring at me, he gives up and lets his eyes fall onto his palm that lays upon his sheets in between his thighs.

"Nah, I doubt it. But she's really nice."

"So she's a prospect girlfriend or what?"

His eyes hits mine ever so slightly before they're thrown away again, his face suddenly more solemn than when the teasing started. I don't know what I'm saying wrong or how I'm treading this incorrectly.

"Yeah, maybe."

It's awkward suddenly, not because of the silence that fills the room, but because of the thoughts developing by it. It's at this point I wish I was better at this, that I wish I'd made a better attempt at the counselor's office when she urged me to start a conversation, end the awkwardness that fills a quiet room. Thankfully, Glen is here and does it for me.

"I'm never drinking again."

"Sure you are."

We smirk ever so slightly, trying to restore the previous banter that felt so much better than this weird toe-stepping dance we suddenly seemed to tangle ourselves into.

"So, you had fun last night?"

I sit fully on the bed as I say this, entwining my legs with one another, fully facing Glen who's still halfway under the sheets. The whole question is fishing, fishing for things and happenings I'm dying to know, dying to inot/i know.

"I guess."

"...did something happen?"

"Nah, just some guys who were being assholes."

I don't know if I'm getting warmer or if I'm still on ice-cold ground but I'm not going to let the opportunity pass me to maybe get to know the circumstances that led to last night. That led to Spencer coming home earlier than I've ever seen her and let alone icrying/i.

"How so?"

"I just didn't like the way they were talking."

I'm looking at him intently but he's not looking back at me, hiding from me the possible proofs of something more laying between his words.

"What did they say?"

He's quiet for awhile, stroking out creases in his sheets, as if contemplating what he should or shouldn't say. I hope he says it all.

"They were just...being an ass to someone. Saying all kinds of untrue things."

"How do you know they were untrue?"

I know I'm probing, I know I'm stepping over the line of polite interest and entering flat out curiosity, but I can't help it. It feels like I'm so close, so close but still so far away.

"Because I know her, and I know she's not like that...!"

I'm stunned, his outburst never directed at me but still taking me by surprise. And it's then that I'm taken back to the night before, the night that altered so much and there are certain sentences that suddenly start to replay over and over in my head, not leaving me alone, never leaving me be:

i  
" They're just so wrong, you know, they think they know everything about me and they-... They're so wrong, I'm not-.."

--

"You've heard them, haven't you? The million rumors that is passed around about me."

--

"I didn't mean to, I swear I didn't, I was just drunk and... and she was there, I didn't mean to kiss her."

/i

He notices, he senses by the glaced over look on my face that I'm far away in a different sphere, having the answer so near me, so impossible near but never managing to fully grasp it, to fully see the whole picture.

"So, what did you do last night? Stayed up with the 'folks?"

He's sending this conversation into another direction, hoping in vain that I'll forget what he previously said, what he unintentionally blurted out. I can't help but grant it to him, but only for show, never in reality. Because I doubt I'll ever forget what he previously uttered.

"I read some. Just hung around, really. Nothing special."

«That sounds boring.»

«It was okay.»

He looks at me tiredly, eyebrows slightly scrunched up in pain, his hangover still clinging to him desperate to not let go. I'm still not enlightened, still not with knowledge as to what happened the previous night but I can't ask him any more. I can't torture him anymore by sitting here, forcing him to have his eyes open when all he wants is to go back under the sheets and sleep it all away. So I leave, I stand up from his bed and walk out the door, trying to block out as much light as possible before I shut the door, but not all the way.

No, I can't leave without telling him one important thing.

«I think you should go for her. The girl, I mean. If she's nice.»


	27. Hands Tied

**Hands Tied**

Keys are thrown onto a hard surface, rattling ever so slightly at the collision. Steps are taken around a room, a clothing article shaken off of narrow shoulders and laid somewhere outside my line of vision.

Because it is all out of my line of vision.

All I know is what I hear from here, from this spot I'm standing so awkwardly in, a few feet from an open door that could just as well be closed. It wouldn't make it harder than it already is to ever tread over it.

My arms are crossed infront of me, body leaning lightly against the hallway wall, copying an action that is completely out of place because there's somewhere else I should be standing. There's something else I should be leaning against. This is only a test before the real deal, the real spot I should inhabit in a few moments and I'm merely preparing myself.

I must look ridiculous here I stand, leaning against an empty wall in a hallway meant to be walked in, and before I've been waiting too long for the right moment to occur, I lean away from the wall, uncross my arms and smooth my sweaty palms roughly against the fabric of my jeans.

I changed my mind, arms crossed isn't the position I want to take as I approach her again. No, arms crossed means defensiveness and that's not what I want. That's exactly what I idon't/i want.

For the first time in weeks, it seems my head is ahead of my feet, mind urging them to take the necessary steps towards a doorstep I can't remember ever standing on.

They don't squeak like I expected them to, the hardwood floors outside her room, and her doorframe doesn't feel as sharp on my arm as I always imagined it to be. Yes, I'm here, standing on her doorstep, thumbs barely inside the pockets of my jeans, eyes roaming around her room in open curiousity before seeing the keys on her desk and then seeing the movement assuring me of her presence. That she really is inside this room, this room I'm tipping on the doorstep to so nervously but with so much bravery that I couldn't chicken out even if I wanted to.

For the first time, this feels right. This setting, letting her see me watching her, silently asking her to notice me, invite me in. Mentally as much as literally.

I know she saw me the minute I stepped onto this barely raised door sill as I let my toes dig into the edge of it but never letting my eyes fall on them. No, I won't let my eyes fall down this time. Instead, I let them do what they want to.

There's no show of her noticing my presence other than the eyes that are looking straight into mine. She continues what she's doing, rummaging through her purse as she stands by her desk and at last she lowers her eyes from mine and onto the purse.

It doesn't surprise me.

I expect nothing less than this. I'm just happy she hasn't slammed the door in my face yet. I hope it won't come to that.

I don't know what she's looking for but she's putting all her concentration into her quest for something inside the purse. It makes me smile, ever so slightly but still noticeable to a searching eye. There's no eyes searching me though, and I wish there was. Because I want them on me, I want those blue eyes filled with so much tension to meet mine again, I want it so much. So much that I can't walk away from this doorstep even though I know she's ignoring me. Ignoring me so openly and carelessly that I know my presence affects her, affects her more than she would ever admit that it does. I just hope it affects her in the way I want it to.

She finds whatever she's been searching for but I don't take notice of it. I don't care what it is, because I know it could've been anything. Could've been the pocket mirror I've seen her lend Madison every now and then, could've been her cell phone that she never seems to find inside the jungle that is her handbag. Whatever she found, I know it wasn't in her purse at all because I'm pretty sure she was never really looking for anything in it. She was looking for something inside iher/i.

Courage.

That's what I think she found, because she no longer chooses to ignore me and looks at me again. Eyes so hard to read but still so expressive, still calling me in without knowing it.

Still just meeting mine and making me so very, very nervous again.

She turns away from me and walks with small steps toward her bed, sitting down on it so very carefully that it looks like she's afraid it'll break. Afraid it'll not be there when she trusts it to support her.

Her hands grip the sides of her bed tightly, suffocating the edges before releasing her grip while she sighs ever so softly, trying in vain to release whatever tension that has has filled her. Her eyes travel a path along the floor before they reach me again, not my eyes but the tip of my toes, the ones that are tipping on the doorstep, hidden inside white socks but their form still easily seen. They don't linger there for long though, they don't linger anywhere for long as her eyes climb up me, not in anger, not in lust but in awkwardness and confusion. She's wondering what I'm doing here. Stepping into her territory.

I take her silence as invitation and when she doesn't object at my presence gradually decreasing in distance, I muster up the courage to sit down beside her. Sit down on the same bed that she sleeps in every night, the same bed I've never seen her bring anyone into.

Wondering if I might be the first one outside her family to touch it.

It's almost pathetic to even call it 'beside her'. Because there are so many feet separating us on this bed, a distance that could be measured in years but I hope to lessen those months and days that stand between us. That separates us and makes us so alien to one another. We've already come such a long way.

«I heard about last night.»

Not the most tactful approach, I'm fully aware but what words should have been uttered before it? There's so many empty sentences that could've opened this conversation between us, but I don't see the use of them. We've never had a normal conversation. Never uttered words without meaning and I'm not about to start. All I want is to be truthful. And hope with all I've got that she'll be the same.

«What about last night?»

Her voice is rushed, not successful at hiding the obvious fright that lays beyond them, those words she probably hoped to never have to say.

«You shouldn't care about what they say. It's just rumours, people always feel the need to spread them but they'll go away. They don't know you.»

She looks at me with an almost offended expression, confused but annoyed at my blunt assumption of her feelings and she obviously doesn't like it.

«They can say whatever they want about me. It's not like they haven't always done so, I don't care.»

Confusion creeps into every pore in my body and I'm not sure if she's just blocking me out or being honest. And my next words are probably so far from what I meant to say that I wonder if I even thought them, or just blurted them out before I had the time to think them.

«But you were crying last night...»

Whatever button I pressed with my misplaced sentence, it seems to have hit the trigger and maybe it wasn't so misplaced after all. Maybe it was the sentence that needed to be uttered more than anything. Because she looks at me so open-eyed right now, cheeks reddening as if she never thought I would ever adress it so openly, so innocently.

«I wasn't crying because of that...!»

Her hands leave their spot on the bed and it looks like she doesn't know where to place them, doesn't know what to do with them other than suspend them in the air, looking around her not quite believing what she just said. I can't quite believe it myself.  
My mouth is open and won't close, my own eyes mirroring hers in size and I've got no words in my mouth, no words in my head. So I just look bewildered around me, around her. And as I do so, I see her hands fall down in her lap, one softly stroking the other as if soothing herself, seeking comfort in her own hands and her forehead wrinkles, not much but noticeable when you really look at her. Study her like I do.

«You know why I was crying last night...»

The end of her sentence is punctuated by her eyes shooting into mine, but only briefly before they fall down into her lap again.

She's opening up to me. Opening up in ways I don't think she's ever done before and I don't know what to do with this trust she's throwing into my slippery hands. I'm so scared that I might break it.

On the other hand, this is the chance I've always wanted and I'm not sorry for her trust in me. No, I'm so far from sorry that I can barely see the outline of it. This is my chance to prove I deserve it.

And I'm messing it up so badly, messing up all the words I've said over and over in my head in preparation for this moment. They're chopped up, altered, spread around and impossible to find meaning to, those words I planned to say to her when this moment came. Rendering me speechless.

My silence must be taken as an end to this conversation, because she stops staring blurriedly in front of herself, stops sitting on the bed next to me and instead stands up and tucks her shirt down nervously. I can't see where she's looking because I'm so caught up in desperately looking for the right words, the right actions to follow such a vulnerable admittance but they're still not there. Still not solved in my head.

She doesn't kick me out like I thought she would, almost hoped she would. Instead, she walks across her room and mindlessly starts to stroke the buttons of her stereo, never pressing hard enough for it to start. Just keeping it as an undisguisable distraction.

They will never be found, those words I'm looking for, so I think of new ones but they all seem wrong, all seem too mediocre and pathetic to honor this very setting.

When my first words are about to come forth, they are stopped by someone outside this situation, someone so perplexed by this very setting that he's not even capable of disguising it.

«Oh, hi girls! I didn't think I'd find you both in here, but good. Good.»

Arthur just stands there, looking between us making this even more awkward. Or possibly less, because he's breaking the tension, filling it with just awkwardness. And awkwardness doesn't hold a tenth to what tension seems to do to me.

He smiles a happy little smile that he hopes is the right emotion to show right now, and then he finally talks again.

«So, I've baked brownies and I thought you might want some, especially since Glen is out cold and doesn't have the chance to eat them up before you get there.»

He looks at us expectantly, but I think he's kinda sorry he busted in on us, in on whatever moment I know he knows we had. I'm just grateful he doesn't know iwhat/i kinda moment.

«Sure Arthur, that would be great», is what I manage to pull out of me, Spencer just looking at her dad and nodding, apparently not feeling the urge to talk orally.

He just leaves, doesn't say anything more than that and I can hear his footsteps smacking hard down on the steps like they always do. Never fooling anyone about his whereabouts.

Her finger is still resting against the 'pause' button of her stereo as I dislodge myself from her bed and look toward her. I copy Arthur's smile and I do it genuinely, actually happy in my confusion and she catches it. What stuns me even more is that she reciprocates it. Sends it back to me in a closed-mouthed package and it makes it so hard for me to not fully break out into a grin. It just doesn't seem like the time for those kind of smiles yet.

We both walk toward the door simultaneously, never crossing our minds that it's not big enough to fit us both at the same time without making us impossibly close.

Or maybe that's exactly that crossed both of ours mind.

Either way, we end up here, so close to the doorstep and even closer to eachother, shoulder pressing into a shoulderblade and when I turn my head to look at her, she's so frighteningly close to me that it makes me tingle. Makes me stop breathing momentarily as I will myself to step away from her and not let us continue this close encounter.

I don't move at all.

Neither does she, but only for such a brief moment that I could have imagined it. Could have tricked my own mind because I so desperately wanted that to happen. Wanted her that close to me.

Now I just want her even closer.

«Sorry», is heard uttered from far away, because she iis/i suddenly far away, having stepped back and reduced the insane tension that still tickles my bones. Still tickles me the whole way down the stairs, giving me a frightening thrill that I should be used to around her but it still feels new every time I experience it.

As I enter the kitchen, I linger in the doorway for a moment, only a few seconds but seconds that are so precious to me because I hope she will be right behind me. Hope she will repeat the same position as before, so close to me, so painstakingly, euphoricly close to me.

It's so ridiculous the whole immature wish of mine, because Arthur and Paula is in here, inside this room and I know I should be careful. All in all, I shouldn't be doing anything at all. For them, I shouldn't even think it, let alone wish it. That's why I step inside the room in a sudden rush, sitting down in the spot I always sit in during family meals and I don't know if it's out of habit or in hope of her sitting down next to me. Close to me.

I no longer trust my decisions to be unbiased.

Several moments pass before she enters, reason unknown as to why it took her so long. No hints as to why is given and I stop dwelling on it when she sits down in a chair so different from the one I wanted her in. The one next to me continuing to be vacant.

«I hope you're all hungry.»

Arthur smiles and looks between us all, making me forced to pretend a smile I'd rather not show. I'm confused and more disappointed than such a trivial thing should ever make me, and it makes me mad at myself for being so powerless to the feelings she ignites in me.

«So Spencer, how was Madison doing?»

She looks up from her plate and watches her mother with a look tinted with suspicion. Her gaze shifts momentarily into my direction and she catches me staring at her but I don't look away. Right now I'm justified in my watching because we're all waiting for her to answer, all waiting for her to tell without effort.

But she needs effort to reply. And however much I try to turn it around in my head, all I end up with is one recurring thought in my head; she wasn't at Madison's house earlier. She might've planned to, but she never went.

«Yeah, she was fine as always.»

«That's good to hear, I heard her parents were having some problems in their marriage so I was just wondering how she was holding up.»

The staring executed toward the plate in front of her is intensified as Spencer's jaw clenches, teeth grazing together in silence.

«She's good mom, stop being nosy.»

«I'm not being nosy, I'm just feeling bad for her you know.»

«No mom, you're just looking for some gossip and I'm not going to give it to you.»

I'm sure Paula has a frown upon her face and feels wronged by Spencer's comment but I wouldn't really know for sure. She's not the one I'm looking at. It's Spencer that owns my attention and there's a little glint of thankfulness that she's sitting opposite of me and not beside me, because it gives me a better ability to watch her, read her. Stare at her unabashedly without anyone thinking twice about it.

It pains me to admit it, but I'm grateful that Glen isn't here. Because he would've noticed. He always does.

And they talk more, these people that surround this table I'm at but I'm not hearing their words, only sounds jarring in the background as I watch her lips move, as I watch her eyebrows raise, as I let her affect on me consume me completely.

I'm so in love with her.

Scares the shit out of me, those words, because I never thought it went that deep. I never thought it was ithat/i serious for me. But it is now, even if it wasn't before. I've always been under her, grasping and hoping and wishing for her acceptance but I didn't know her then. I didn't see her like I do now and whatever fascination I once had has strengthened tenfold, burst the bottle and she's no longer just the girl I want to like me. She's so much more than that.

There's rushed movements coming from my right and as I finally let my eyes tear themselves away from tingles and faster heartbeats I see Paula rushing into the living room in a hurry. My confused expression doesn't go unnoticed but thankfully it's the right person noticing. How could she not when she knew I was starting at her the whole time, barely even touching the brownies on my plate.

«Favourite show», is muttered under her breath as Arthur reaches for my plate, looking at me weirdly. He's not used to me leaving food behind.

«I can do the dishes, you can just join Paula if you want.»

Finally I say something, more out of habit than thought out words but it makes him smile again, smoothing out the frown between his eyebrows as he lets the plate be and turns around in Spencer's direction.

«Will you help her, Spencer?»

He doesn't expect an answer, even less the «yes» that slips out from soft lips but he's pleasantly surprised instead of suspicious like he should be. Like I am. Because this is so not her, so not what she does and I don't know how to take it. If I should be thrilled or terrified.

When I think about it, I believe I'm both.

Her hand reaches out for Paula's plate and I watch her retrieve it before I snatch Arthur's plate before she does the job for me. She's quicker than me, and it's not without a reason. I'm deliberately spending more time than normal on balancing the cutlery on the plates, because I'm waiting for her to make a move. I'm waiting for her to reach the dishwasher before me.

She does, never noticing my hesitant movements or maybe just ignoring them. Just like I'm ignoring the barely noticeable shake in her hands because I don't know what it means. And this is not the time to dwell on it. I've already got my mind full of things so unfathomable, I'm not capable of handling any more.

She never walks away from it, the dishwasher, instead just hovering by it, looking in my direction as I try my best to focus on the plates and not on her, not on her form that is pressed against the kitchen counter with hands gripping the edges hard. While her hands almost hid their nervous shake earlier, my hands are trembling like they've never done before, and it doesn't slow down when I step closer to her. It doesn't lessen at all.

I'm amazed I even manage to place the plates where they're supposed to, and not in pieces on the floor. But I do, and as I hover down here, down by the dishwasher and seeking comfort in its neutral and unfearful nature I'm waiting for her to leave. Waiting for her to walk away from me like she's done so many times, over and over but always leaving me with isomething/i. Some weird feeling that only seems to strengthen every time I see her leave.

She never leaves.

«Ash.»

I can't bare hearing her say my name, it just makes it even harder, even more painstaking knowing that she can say it in such a way. In such an easy and natural way and making it mean iso much more/i.

My head is swimming, blurred in vision and I can't see a way out of this, I can't see how this can ever go back to what it once was: Fascination and contempt.

As I stand up, I have to turn away. I can't look at her in this state, I can't trust my actions to control themselves because my mind has already been taken hostage by the tingling feeling she envelops me with.

And all trust in restraint is forever gone when I end up turning too far, too much around and ending up just in front of her. A step being taken without my consent and hands landing on the kitchen unit right beside hers. One of them accidentally touching her thumb and making my breath hitch.

I'm not sure if the hitching was because of the touch or the closeness though. Because seconds later, my lips land on hers and my eyes slam shut and it's just that one touch. That one thing binding us together and it feels almost too real.

Not because I haven't imagined this over and over, not because I actually dared to do it.

It's because she doesn't back away.

She doesn't really kiss me back either, not at first. No, we're both just standing there, me waiting for her to stop this, push me away and run out, or even worse, start shouting at me. Her... I'm too afraid to speculate on her reason for not pulling out of it.

I'm just so happy and nerve-wrecked at the same time that she doesn't. End it.

And I tense even more when I feel her lips move, ever so slightly away from mine but never letting me get filled with dread before placing them back on my quivering lips, slightly different but still so very, very soft.

It's almost like she can't believe it herself.

I sure as hell can't.

Especially not when the hands previously gripping the kitchen counter right next to mine land on my jawline and she leads me carefully closer, closer into her body and ultimately closer into her kiss. iOur/i kiss.

I back out of it far enough to let my lips part from hers, but never far enough to take us out of the moment. I'm too afraid to open my eyes, too afraid of having reality dawn on me so I don't let them be apart for too long, those lips of ours.

She seems to have the same idea.

It's never harsh or wanting, just filled with so much tension that I'm afraid I'm going to have heart attack at any moment.

It would still be worth it.

And as I thought my breath was already out of me for good, a velvet touch without warning lands on my bottom lip, just touching it and I don't know how to proceed.

Sure, I've done this before. It's not the first time I've kissed someone, made out with someone, but the thought of actually imaking out/i with Spencer is so surreal and unbelievable that it shakes me up in ways I can't describe.

It's not a gasp or subconscious reaction that makes me part my lips. Instead it's such a conscious step that I remember every bit of it, every movement I make as I deepen this. Deepen it so slowly, because I can't rush this. I can't inot/i revel in it.

She doesn't rush it either.

My hands are still on the edge of the counter behind her, no longer touching it but instead gripping it so thoroughly and harshly that I'm sure my knuckles are turning white. Every ounce of my body begging me to give in and touch her, touch her in all the places I want to but don't dare to.

The fearfulness has never left me.

I'm still afraid of everything about her, everything that is happening and my hands are a proof of that. A proof of how incredibly inot/i ready I am for this.

This insane impact she has on all my senses.

It's not before my hand looses its safe grip on the counter and betrays me by reaching up her sides, feeling slight trembles along the way, that I understand how wrong this is. How incredibly out of line we both are.

Hands are off of her in an instant, as if burnt and so are my lips. All contact is broken as I finally let my eyes open bluntly and look right into closed eyelids. Closed eyelids that are slowly opening and when her eyes open to look at me once again, I feel the taste of salt on my lips, suddenly noticing the wet feeling on my cheeks and the automatic sniff I try to hide with the back of a palm touching the tip of my nose.

Her expression suddenly looks more broken than mine has ever done.

«We can't do this.»


	28. Abide With Me

I recommend reading the last chapter over again, as it picks right up.

**Abide With Me  
**

These stairs are so impossibly steep.

I've treaded them many a time, up and down and with such an ease, but now they're anything but. This time, for the _first_ time, I'm having difficulties bringing my knee up to take these necessary steps up a path that has no ending. Because where I really want to be is behind me, and I'm just running away. Escaping the girl that is still in the kitchen, that is still leaning against a counter that has been mentally marked by our disobeying hands.

I'm still shaking. Not physically, but inside I'm buzzing from what happened, feeling my skin prickle from the memory of what I did. What _we_ did.

I have to fight to keep my mind on other things, on topics far away from Spencer and her lips, miles away from her hands on my neck and her body close to mine. My eyes goes against me and closes, pictures it as I momentarily stop on these steps, these wooden planks that makes this anything but easier for me.

The sound of a cupboard being shut harshly from downstairs shakes me out of my reverie and puts speed to my feet, I'm up the stairs faster than I thought possible, ironically considering their reluctance to let me tread them just moments before.

I can't face her right now, not after running away in such a cowardice way, so I run, really _run_ into my room and close the door hurriedly, hearing it smack loudly and cringe at the sound.

I hope she didn't hear.

--

She sees me now.

She sees me but not with her eyes, not with her form being in the same room as me or anywhere in my vicinity.

No, she sees me in a different way. In a way I wasn't ready to be seen in. A way I never would've been properly ready to be seen in.

So maybe this is right.

Maybe my unthoughtful but still so intentional movements last night were meant to happen. Meant to be done in such a rushed and imperfect way, because it was _the only way_.

From behind doors and walls and windows she holds a knowledge I hadn't fully given her before. Sure, I might've not been subtle, I might've not been suave, but I was still letting her live in partial uncertainty. Not in full knowledge of my utter attraction and deep emotional attachment to her.

Now I can't see how she would be able to not understand me. Not read me like an open book.

Regardless of my cowardice abandonment - leaving her in a kitchen that will forever be tainted by the memory of heightened arousal and shaking lips - she still must be on to me. On to everything about me and everything I've ever been.

It's more suffocating than it is freeing.

I feel exposed and unsure.

I have no clue as to how her reaction was. How she acted and what she did as I stepped up those impossibly steep stairs, unwillingly wanting her to run after me, hopefully scared that she would seek me out.

Devastatingly relieved that she didn't.

I'm afraid of meeting her in the hallways, I'm scared shitless of having to sit in the same car as her, watch her at school, go home to the same house as her.

Mostly, I'm just scared of what it will be like. If it will be the same or completely different. If she will talk to me or avoid me like the plague. I'm not sure which I prefer.

I deserve nothing but her silence, everything but her attention.

And when I step outside this door I've been hiding behind since the dark hours of last night, I am met with a sight I'm not sure how to process. Because there's nothing to process at all. Everything is exactly like it's always been.

And I'm oddly dissappointed.

She's there, alright, but not in some dramatic or extravagant way. All I see is her hands knocking in fervor on a door I myself was looking for, the bathroom door which is obviously holding the room occupied.

"Glen! What the hell are you doing in there, polishing your nails?!"

I don't hear the reply but can't help cracking a smile at her antics, dissappointment momentarily replaced with adoration before it's back with a vengeance. Along with it comes the ever alert nerves that always seem to make an appearance whenever she's near.

She's about to see me.

I don't want to admit it, but I want her to. I want her to catch me looking at her, even if it's only for a brief moment. Just testing the waters, seeing how today will play out, how she is going to act on this _day after_.

But when she does see me, when she does strike me with her gaze, it's me who break it and look away. Her hand is still leaning against the bathroom door, her weight tipping toward the door, head barely tilted but there is no smile on her face. From the millisecond I _did_ meet her eyes, I only saw questions. Questions I have no idea how to answer.

This isn't just about me and her. It's about a whole family.

A family I just can not lose.

She loses her balance for a few seconds as the door holding her weight is opened, stumbling lightly before finding her footing once again. It's a cute happening that I wish I could revel in, that I wish I could watch the outcome of, but I can't. I can't stand here on the border between my room and the hallway staring at her when _he_ steps out. He can not catch us in any kind of moment, however trivial and small it might be.

His eyes are not oblivious or indifferent.

They are searching, and whatever he wants to find, he will find if he watches us closely enough. That is not something I'm about to give him freely, so my retreat into my room is not meant as hiding from her.

I hope she understands.

I don't want to avoid her. So I try not to.

So it's not avoidance when I choose to never look her way when she talks in the car, words flowing freely from her like there's not a care in her head.

I swear it's not.

It's not a thought out decision when at lunch I choose a seat that doesn't have her in my line of vision when I usually always choose a seat I can watch her from.

It really isn't.

She deserves an apology, any show of remorse for my childishly mature retreat last night, but I'm too scared to go through with it. I'm too scared to meet her eyes when I know they're searching for mine across the schoolyard, begging me to just give her an ounce of attention, a fleeting admittance to what I did the night before.

My eyes stay glued on everything but her.

He's looking at me too, Glen, a slight arch in his eyebrow telling me he's trying to figure me out, figure out why I'm sitting on this side of the table instead of _his_ side. I give him a reassuring look that is filled with anything but reassurance. Hopefully his eyes can't see that far inside.

My back is burning, but I am unsure if it's from her eyes burning into it or my hopes wanting her to. The burning is soon explained.

"Hey, Glen, I don't need a lift home from school after all."

He squints up at her, the sun most likely illuminating her in a saintly way, and I have to refrain from turning around and looking up at her, eyes wide instead of squinting like Glen's are.

"Why not?" he asks, obviously not caring about her answer as he takes a bite out of his sandwich and never looks up at her again. But I am grateful for his question.

"Hanging out with Madison", I hear her shout from afar, noting from her voice that she's walking away from us and it makes me finally turn, makes me finally look behind me and watch her. Only now, _her_ back is turned to _me_.

--

I knew I should have followed Glen to the gym. There are many things I should have done but never did. And all I can do right now is wallow in remembrance of them, laying flat out on top of my bed internally cringing at all the wrong decisions I've made.

There are a lot of them lately.

My conviction of doing what was right last night – breaking a kiss laced with so many complications – seems to be slowly diminishing, and regret is seeping into me with increasing force. Images of a continued nature, of lips still on me, of hands touching her hips, feeling her skin.

It's all playing out before me like it is really happening, but it's not me touching her, just an illusion of me. And it's not making things better.

I'm conflicted, unsure if having her here in this house with me in this instance would be better or worse. If the ache settling in my chest would lessen or grow.

I think it would do both.

I can feel the slight tug of distress in my skin, in my bones as I lay unmoving on the mattress, hips digging into soft foam, pillow imprisoning my vision along with my head. Only sound in my vicinity being the soft noise of feet trudging along wooden floorboards, lightly stepping along the hallway as if scared of being heard.

They would be unheard if I wasn't awake at this hour, alert and sensitive to any movement around me.

I am therefore surprised, almost frightened when I hear the noise of toes and heels increasing, and I can't help the reaction of anticipation filling my every nerve.

And then it goes silent.

My breath is no longer in motion, having stopped the minute the noise stopped outside my door. My eyes are wide open but they cannot see anything, being caged with fluffy fabric, and therefore I can't see what happens when the door is opened, when the footsteps tread closer, when the mattress sink down gently beside me.

But oh God, can I feel it.

My breathing isn't like it's supposed to be anymore, having forgotten how to breathe naturally, evenly. Instead it has been replaced with irregular inhales, uneven exhales, and I'm trying with all my might to not make it noticeable.

To not make her hear it.

Cause it's a _her_ beside me, and not just any _her_. The way my body reacts, the way my nerves go crazy rids me of any doubt that it isn't her. That it isn't Spencer Carlin laying on the mattress beside me.

And when I feel her fingertips tracing my upper arm, I can't help but close my eyes at the sensation, the loss of eyesight making the experience of fingertips even more overwhelming.

She is laying beside me.

My eyes are willing me to raise my head, let them see her, let them see what they so desperately crave, but my mind is too paralyzed by the situation to do anything about it.

What if she thinks I am sleeping.

The way her fingers dance down my arm, touching my wrist in such an intimate way, makes me slip, makes me lose a barely noticeable inhibition but I know she can hear it. I know she can hear the slight hitch of breath that escapes me without my consent.

Because her fingers on my wrist pause, then remove themselves momentarily, and I cringe into my pillow making it slightly move, only confirming my wakefulness in this otherwise silent room.

But she proves my prophecies of leaving wrong when those soft fingers thread through my own, grasping my hand softly but securely.

And she leaves me completely shocked when she utters the most nerve-wrecking words I have dreamed of hearing ever since I laid eyes on her.

"Look at me."

And it takes me seconds, mental minutes before I dare do what she so gently asked me to do.

Requested me to do.

My head lifts from the pillow, both willing and reluctant in its quest to abide her.

It takes me no more than a millisecond to understand how close she is to me when my face finally does turn her way, when the pillow no longer protects me from what is right in front of me.

No longer shades me from the light I so desperately need to let shine on me.

And my God, does it shine. Those eyes, those lips, that stare penetrating me so deeply.

She is inside me by just holding my hand, and I can't help but let my eyes drop slightly into forbidden territory, onto forbidden lips.

"Kiss me."

I have to stop myself from saying those words. But they are the only words that keep getting repeated inside my head, the only words I can think of right now. _Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.._.

I say nothing.

She says it without words.

Soft.

Tentative.

I can't think in anything but fragments, mind going blank when I feel those lips touching mine, almost as softly as her hands felt, ten times as exhilarating as her stare felt.

She is moving them so slowly against me, increasing the sensation of every move by a tenfold. And even though my nerves are still there, even though I am dreadfully aware of every complications that will follow every kiss we share, I can't help but thank whatever made her come into this room, whatever made her come in and kiss me.

She brings our joined hands up between us, lips lingering on mine before pressing deeper into them, putting pressure into a kiss she wants me to take further.

And I for once abide.

My kisses turn harder, but not overstepping into hurtful, instead just showing how much I need her to kiss me back.

She replies with a swift movement of tongue against my bottomlip.

And I am sold.

I am completely and utterly in her hands in this moment, not sure I could stop anything from happening no more, fully aware that any judgment on my behalf is gone, just...gone.

Her hand leaves mine and I'm just happy, I'm just thrilled cause she rests it on my neck instead, finger intentionally or unintentionally tickling the back of it, I don't care which.

I don't care because I no longer think, no longer analyze, too deep into this, too deep into her.

Feeling her soft sounds and faster breathing tickles my insides, strokes my want in ways I didn't know was possible, knowing my breathing is heavier than usual doesn't bother me for once, doesn't even graze the outline of my intentions cause all I intend is to follow her every movement, her every step.

Meet her halfway when she deepens, when she takes us a step further.

Her body is suddenly pushing into mine, pressing me against the mattress and it makes me break the kiss momentarily, surprised and so, so exhilarated. She doesn't let me break it for too long, lips fervently meeting mine, knee slipping between my legs and when it's hitting a spot that aches so good, I understand this isn't right, this isn't how it's supposed to be.

I am afraid to take things further.

My lips stop moving against hers, but she doesn't seem to care, her hands traveling from my neck and down a path along the sides of my body.

I hate doing it, I'm even contemplating letting her continue, but it's not right, it's so far from right that it would be inexcusable. Irreversible.

She is all-consuming in her touches, but there is something missing, the connection with _her_ is missing, I cannot feel her.

I feel foolish for having been fooled by her touch, by her physical presence to believe she is here with me mentally, doing this for no other reason than to unite us.

Now, I feel like nothing but another conquest of hers.

She notices my lack of returning, my sounds suddenly evading this room and how could she not notice. How could she not notice my sudden silence when just moments before I was panting into her kisses, willing to give her anything she wanted.

This isn't what she wants.

My eyes are wide open, witnessing her eyes opening slowly, as if scared it will break this. But it's already been broken.

She stares at me for long seconds.

Long seconds.

And I don't like what I see in them.

I have to flinch and look away when her stare becomes angry, when her touches are no longer soft, when her body becomes hard and closed up, when she moves off of me with a huff.

A huff I don't feel like I deserved.

"What was that..?"

She doesn't answer. Back suddenly the only thing I see of her, I cannot search her face for clues as to what she's thinking.

I don't think I would've understood anyway.

Her lack of an answer makes me angry too, but along with it comes the ever present uncertainty that taints my every thought, the fright of having done something so very wrong, something irreversible, unjustifiable.

But this time, it's not me I'm afraid did something wrong.

This time, I'm afraid _she_ did something unjustifiable.

--


End file.
